Turn into Something
by Bardic Jester
Summary: What would happen if the gang's time at Hogwarts was closer to a normal student's experience? How would they change if sneaking out and partying became the only source of excitement? If they were filled with existential angst, sexual desires and magic? Featuring a second story staring Theodore Nott.
1. Present

_It's all made up to begin with...._

The darkness always bugged Ron. It seemed as if each damned corridor lead to a new oblivion. The black was constant, empty and placid. Unlike other parts of Hogwarts, the towers were not lit during the night. The only illumination it enjoyed was from the moon or from the light pollution; although, it was only enough to accent the windows. The light barely seemed able to escape the glass. There was an ominous nothing within arm's reach. Stone walls reached out towards the darkness, and were overtaken in each direction.

The black may have made him uncomfortable, but he had to accept it. If it were not dark, then he would not come here. He was headed towards his secret hiding place in the school, where he could do whatever he wished without disturbance. If the hallways were bright, then he would be easily discovered. He was willing to risk capture if discovered, but it would make him feel silly if it was not difficult. If Nick was actually able to find him here, then he deserved to be found.

He had heard of the House's secret hiding places during his first year. The older students would leave after curfew to gain some privacy. Initially he had been confused why they would want privacy, but tongues of gossipers were eager to fill him in. Boys and girls were bunked in segregated rooms, often sharing the room with up to ten people. It was obvious why certain people would want to get out from under the glare of the institution. Other reasons were later told to him, such as small drinking parties. He had left the house for the first reason, but had often done it for the second. Such was common practice in seventh year.

The House Ghost was employed to make sure kids did not leave their house. Gryffindor's ghost Headless Nick was known for having a stick up his ass, and the toughest ghost to leave the house with. HufflePuff were rumoured to have paid off their ghost and were given almost completely free movement in their corner of the school. At least, it was the story one of Harry's recent girlfriends had told him. The trick to leave the door was simple, if someone leaving the house had a hall pass, then the paintings or guardians of the door were not allowed to tell the house ghost who had left and when. The hall passes were given by prefects to students, and no prefect would refuse someone in sixth or seventh year, under fear of social exile and ridicule.

His older brothers had been particularly good at moving around the school undetected. He'd asked them a couple of times about it and they described their method of anti-exploration. One needed to better understand their surroundings to see how to beat the system. Looking for a utopian place which the ghosts' just didn't know about was an egregious waste of time. The ghost's needed to be out smarted, and extensive knowledge of the geography of the common corridors and parts of the school was essential. They laughed at people who suggested they had a magical map.

Harry, during sixth year, had often complained about his lack of privacy. Ron would jest about how Harry's life would have been made easier by an invisible cloak.

Ron did not end up finding his secret spot; so much as he was given it. During his sixth year he took a course in precognition, and met a bunch of seventh year advanced precognition students. They told him how Professor Sinistra would each year give her favourite precognition student the key to her astronomy classroom for after class and late night study. It was nicer to read the stars when it was actually dark outside. The girl who was Sinistra's favourite during Ron's sixth year often invited other students to the classroom for secret parties and the likes. Ron was invited to a couple of the parties and was shocked by their freedom. Since Sinistra had given the girl consent to use the classroom, unless the ghosts found out they were drinking alcohol, the students could not be punished. When Ron's seventh year began, he was given the key by Sinistra.

The classroom was in a tower no one used after ten. He would still walk in the dark to try and not draw attention to himself. While he was allowed to be in the classroom, his favourite activity to do in the classroom was get high, which was strictly against the rules. If no one knew he was up there, then there was considerably less chance of him getting caught.

When he was enough in the western tower to not be noticed, he used his wand to light up the path. During the first couple of steps into the darkness, he would not use his wand in fear of someone noticing. It was the worst part of the trip up to the tower. He held his breath, hoping there was nothing sinister waiting for him to come close. During his years at the school, he had grown to fear the things which hid where they could not be seen. The classes he had on magical beasts described some of the most terrifying things imaginable. Creatures able to tear a person's abdomen open before they even realised it. These monsters were attracted to magic, and often hid in the dark around magical places. There was a reason Hogwarts had hired Hagrid as grounds keeper. They needed a guard able to stop one of those beasts from getting to the school from the woods. This was always on his mind, yet there was always nothing. There was always nothing.

He reached the second highest floor on the tower. Great arched doors laid in front of him. The wooden entrance glowed a light blue by the light emanating from his wand. As was common in Hogwarts, different details were craved throughout the surface of the door. Some details were merely aesthetic designs, to symbol that this was the astronomy class. Other details were charms for protection from evil and luck to whoever walked through the door.

He was far enough from the populated parts of the school he probably did not have to be anxious about being loud, but that did not stop his hands from shaking. There was something foreboding about sounds in the endless silence surrounding him. As if even the smallest creek was comparable to a shriek. It took him a couple of seconds to muster up the courage to unlock the door. The key, far larger than it needed to be, was a couple of inches long. Ron wondered if the size of the key corresponded to the magical complexity the key needed to exert. It would seem to be illogical otherwise. He slid the key into the key whole with ease, and it slowly started to glow.

The glow grew in increments, as if it were an infection spreading over the door. Different strands grew outwards in a web formation. The web would interconnect itself and grow on top of itself. The strands consumed the area of the wood, with precision not to miss any part. Soon the whole entrance was a bright blue, while the charms were glowing a harsh red. He pulled the key out of its whole, and took a step back. Darkness began growing in a similar fashion as the glow from the keyhole. Only, the darkness was empty, no glow, no wood. The glow retreated and was soon overcome; he found himself standing in front of an empty arch.

He smiled to himself lightly and moved his feet forward. The precognition classroom was known for its magical plafond. The ceiling was seemingly invisible; the night sky was clear over top. If one did not already about how the classroom worked, then they would claim there was no room. Each star was perfectly aligned to where it was on the night sky, to the most precise detail. It was a magical construction similar to a giant telescope. The view could be enhanced, certain parts could be zoomed in to, and past skis could be replayed on demand.

In the centre of the room sat a small pedestal, from which the display was controlled. The night sky was not the only forum of study for precognition, but for the earlier grades' years astronomy is a nice introduction. His course of precognition, while it took place in the same room, largely avoided reading the stars, for the stars are mostly indifferent. The emotional weight, magical presence, aura of intention, was all about dust and rock. The stars care for gas, and for gravity, not of people. To experience precognition, to see with eyes unseen, one needed to view a person, or a hope. A reading tries to understand a collage of trapped feelings, hidden in the magical resonance floating through the air. The feelings have to have a subject, a purpose for there to be a purpose; the stars' purpose is existence, all that is, logos. It was fascinating to study, but without practicality. The purpose found in the minds and magic of people are emotions; they project how they care, think, hope, fantasize about what is around them.

Precognition was something that fascinated him, the first subject to spark interest. It was a difficult field, of which the Hogwarts's class only gave a slight introduction. He could read blanketed emotions common in crowds, but this was all. Masters of precognition could read the future subconsciously so that their actions conformed to the probable and pleasurable. Many institutions of learning did not give precognition much respect, claiming they were emphasising reading and experiencing instead of using magic. He did not know why exactly he was interested in it. Maybe his loneliness was why he liked it, because then he could read his resonance on people around him, read his own projection. Prove he exists.

The subject had little effect on him at the moment. He was here for hedonistic pleasures. The few things on his mind were: the ache in his left ankle, the spliff in his shirt pocket, the dry feeling on his lips, and that fucking supernova near Orion's Belt that didn't mind it would soon no longer exist. Okay, so maybe certain parts of it still mattered, but only parts.

He took out a wooden match, and lit the spliff between his lips. The smoke lightly danced down through his voice box. He wished for a moment he could be the stars, or he could be the projection, maybe. Exhale. Perhaps he just needed to clear his head; it was all too much for him. He leaned on the wall, and inhaled once more. It felt as if he had the pressure of existence on his face, and it drilled inwards.

For a couple of minutes there was little change. He enjoyed his breaths of smoke, trying to pacify his muscles. A knock. He turned his head towards the doorway. A silhouette stood underneath the arch.

"Jesus Hermione, you scared the shit out of me," he muttered as he tried to hide his fright.

Hermione walked out from under the arch in his direction. It was quiet enough that her attempts to suppress her laughter were loud enough for him to hear. "You know Ron, if you care about not being scared, I suggest we no longer meet in the crazy fucking scary tower," she joked. Once she was close enough, she reached out her hand and took the spliff from between his lips. She inhaled, but it was out. Ron took out another match and relit it. She breathed in, slowly.

Ron smiled and put his matches back in his coat. "I don't think I will ever be able to get over seeing you, Miss Hermione good shoes, taking a toke," Ron observed with a chuckle.

Hermione smiled as well, "don't you know Ron? Drugs are bad for you. Our bodies are a temple we should always try to keep pure." She smiled at him. She stared deeply into the spliff with her eyes focused without focus. Exhale. She turned her attention back to Ron. "Is Harry going to grace us with his presence tonight?"

It took a moment for him to respond, his face was turned upwards. The night sky ceiling was quite a sight, it was even better with a slight high. "I wouldn't bet on it, I think he said something about hanging out with his girlfriends, what's her name? The girl from Hufflepuff." His eyes stared intently, never arching down to see what was on Hermione's face. He was trying to read the story, to see the future.

"I think her name's Cathy," Hermione replied in an uninterested tone. "Of all his recent girlfriends, this one's the worst. I don't think she likes us very much, I mean, she barely lets us see him." Her tone was obviously annoyed, she was not enjoying this.

Ron arched his head back; he had too little focus in his head to be able to try any kind of precognition. Drugs and precognitions were something which went well together, but precogs needed uninterrupted concentration. Ron had done it with marijuana, but he needed to be alone. It was going to be a couple of months before he tried shrooms. He knew he was going to do them though, he'd seen it. Or at least he believed he'd seen it once, it was hard to be specific when reading the future. Though, by accepting the reading, by virtue of the acceptance, was making it true. In an act of defeat, he looked back at Hermione. "She's okay, you're just jealous."

Hermione smiled and punched him softly on his shoulder. "Fuck off man. We stopped dating two years ago. You bring this up every time I'm critical of his girlfriends. I'm over it. " She turned away from him and started to walk towards the central pedestal.

"You could have fooled me," Ron said under his breath. He leaned back against the wall and took out one of his cigarettes.

The pedestal was made out of an old iron, streaks of rust twisted around its frame. On its top lay a small board with switches, some labelled and some not. Hermione stared at a couple for a few seconds, deciding which she felt like playing with. "You know, at least I've actually went out with someone else. I bet you just want to sleep with him, that's why you don't get any girls." Her hand stroked a switch, and the entire room became dark. The only light came from Ron's lips, his smile protruding into where it did not belong. "Sorry about that," she said trying to turn some lights back on.

"I wish that was the reason, one quick fuck and I'd be able to date some girls." He inhaled, the ash glowed an empty red. "If I had real opportunities to get with anyone, then it'd be different. I'm just a victim of poor situation." Beat. He exhaled from his cigarette. Hermione was able to tell where he was due to the burning edge of his cigarette, yet for him, she was undetermined. The room was empty, from the lack of meaning, lack of purpose. All Ron knew was himself, his feeling, and his dreams.

It took a couple of seconds for the lights to turn back on. When Hermione finally turned the proper switch, she let out a small sigh. "It gets a little too spooky in here at night," she said with a nervous tinge in her voice. Her feet turned and she walked away from the pedestal, content on no longer playing with it. "And by the way, that's bullshit and you know it. Under your criteria, a girl's not worth the effort unless she rips off her clothes and fucks you when you first meet." she joked moving towards him.

Ron frowned at her and stuck out his tongue. She moved slowly, each step was accented as if she was trying to rediscover what walking felt like. Fluidly, her body swayed by her weight, in a delicate rhythm. She was wonderfully awkward after a couple of tokes. Beat. "My standards aren't that farfetched; I just don't understand sensuality, or enough prolonged empathy." He slowly felt the cigarette between his fingers, friction was fascinating. "Okay, so maybe it's partially my fault." He closed his eyes in contemplation. "Harry's the real one to blame for my situation. How the fuck was I to know girls were going to be into him like Jimmy Page? I wouldn't have befriended him if I knew, that's for sure. And you know, at least Jimmy Page could play a mean guitar; all Harry did was kill a guy when he was a baby."

Hermione reached one of her hands into a front pocket of his robe. She felt around for a second before taking out some papers. "Blaming Harry now are you? As the only person in the room who has actually boned him, it wasn't because he was a celebrity." There was a wilting smile on her face as she talked, but Ron tried not to notice. She sat down at one of the desks and started to roll.

"Whatever, maybe you didn't, but I'd bet that Cathy girl sure is." Ron added.

Hermione nodded her head slightly, but kept her gaze on her hands. "I'll give you that. Although, don't forget he's also the captain of the Quidditch team. Girl's love guys who have seniority at meaningless things." The paper moved with ease between her fingers. It always fascinated Ron, how much dexterity she had with her hands. It took him a couple of weeks to figure out how to roll a proper spliff, yet she learned it on her first try. Her mind could read and process data in a way Ron did not understand.

Ron turned his head to make sure it did not look as if he was staring. He walked slowly towards the pedestal in the middle of the room. "I always forget about his Quidditch," he chuckled a little under his breath. "It had a nice novelty when he made the team." The different switches on the pedestal were less foreign to him then they were to Hermione. He did actually use the room in the way Sinistra intended every once in a while. "I remember when me and him tried out, it was fourth year right?" Ron asked. Hermione nodded in agreement. Ron continued, "We were so dedicated to leave our mark on the school. All throughout the summer Harry would talk ad nauseum about having his name inscribed on the trophy. When it turned out I did not make the team, the discussion dissipated. I wonder if he stills thinks of that."

"Ever feel sad about not making it?" Hermione asked, licking the paper.

A smile crept on his lips. He turned a switch and the sky changed. His personal supernova next to Orion became the only image on the ceiling. "I don't really care, I mean, I've never been much of a sports guy. It would have been nice to have my name on that trophy, but my focus is elsewhere at the moment. Plus, I'm always sad, there's not much change depending on the reason."

The supernova was filled with bright radiant colours. Lights danced with one another to create a collage of illumination. Each element gravitated and orbited from the centre pulse, holding the energy together. The pressure, and the force rotating at a level, sublime. Hermione's head was arched upwards. Her eyes were wide as she tried to absorb the sight. Ron looked at it differently. The emotion, the aura, the reading: was empty. The star was dying, yet it did not care. There was so much energy and beauty, but it was empty, void.

Hermione put the joint to her mouth and took out her lighter. "There's so much beauty to be found in this school, I almost always forget to look for it." Inhale.

Ron watched as Hermione inhaled, the smoke danced around her lips. "I kind of wish I wasn't so damn afraid of the halls. I mean, I know it's slightly irrational, but I think that Troll really did affect me." Ron hung his head and took out another cigarette. He struck a match off of his jeans and lit the tip.

"Fuck me, I remember that troll. When you and Harry ran into the girl's bathroom screaming about some kind of monster, I don't think that's something I will ever forget." She laughed as she took another toke.

Removing the cigarette from his mouth for a second Ron found himself chuckling to himself. "I can't believe we all huddled into that one stall. Fuck, I don't I've ever been so afraid in my godamned life. The fact that I didn't piss myself is something I hold in high regard. I don't even remember where it came from when me and Harry first saw it. All I remember is joking about something, and then I hear screaming and this big motherfucking monster in the middle of the hall."

"To be honest, I thought you two were pulling a prank on me initially, but when I heard the screams, geeze that was scary," Hermione said. Her eyes turned upwards, and her eyes rested unfocused. She was exploring her memories.

"We were really lucky, legit lucky the fucker didn't follow me and Harry into that bathroom. I think it's quite surprising the thing only hurt three students, it was humongous. Thank goodness Hagrid found it, and had a black belt in kicking Troll ass," Ron reminisced.

Hermione spread her legs out and she stretched her arms outwards. For a moment she placed the spliff on top of the desk and leaned back on the chair she was sitting on. "I'm just happy they found out who let the troll loose so quickly. Otherwise I would have been terrified of going anywhere in this school. I was surprised when it turned out to be Quirrell; I liked him as a professor."

"I heard he was crazy, yelling something about Voldemort living in the back of his head when they arrested them. How he was hired as a professor here I'll never know." Ron added. His memory of the events was fuzzy. There had been many rumours circling the school around the time, to try and discern between the true and false ones was difficult.

As if he'd issued her a challenge, Hermione appeared to be in deep thought. Given enough time, Hermione could remember an encyclopaedia of facts. "He was mentally unstable." She paused for a second. "I believe he suffered from paranoia, schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. He was a dark arts prodigy, who'd been hired a decade ago; it was only recently his problems surfaced. I think at least."

Ron smiled, and said "To think, our first Halloween at school and we got attacked by a troll. It's pretty amazing when you think about it. How many people can claim that? You know, to be honest, I kind of thought something like that would be normal. I mean, I befriended Harry fucking Potter, and then got attacked by a troll. I thought excitement and adventure were right in front of my eyes. Whenever something exciting happened from that point on, like that ominous graffiti in second year or the jail break in third year, I expected somehow it would affect us. I know it sounds stupid, but I was let down when they got resolved around us. When the graffiti turned out to be the work of those Ravenclaw kids, it bugged me in its normality. I think I may have been more afraid of normality than anything else actually. How messed up is that?" He hung his head and took a deep breath. The smoke from his cigarette fought in front of his eyes, yet he was disinterested.

Hermione stood up from her desk and walked towards Ron. She grabbed the cigarette from Ron's mouth and replaced it with the spliff. Slowly, she moved the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. The ash burnt a light red, as her eyes were a stained auburn. Ron, without moving, inhaled from the spliff; in the exact place Hermione had placed it. He opened the side of his lips and let the smoke escape.

There were a couple of seconds of silence. Hermione tilted her head towards the ceiling. "This display is quite wonderful, especially high," she quietly let out of her mouth trying to change the topic. Her fists were clenched, but her eyes stayed fixated upwards.

Ron laughed a little to himself and broke himself out of the daze he was momentarily in. Hermione fascinated him; he was still not used to seeing her high. "It's quite wonderful at all times. You're just unwilling to see it."

"Don't give me any more of your precognition bullshit. I could not care less for whatever crazy shit came out of Sinistra's mouth," she said in a joking manner. For a brief moment she lowered her head and flashed Ron a smile.

"You're too analytic. You want magic to conform to a science and reason. But it's not, it's anarchistic and empty." He walked up towards her and stood by her side. "It doesn't matter though, I'll never convince you."

Hermione frowned, and again diverted her attention towards him. "I wish sometimes you weren't so fatalistic, it gets kind of depressing," she added lightly.

"'Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am ironic -- if it is pulled out I shall die.'" Ron recited in a monotone voice. He reached his arm towards Hermione and grabbed back his cigarette from her hand.

In a playful manner Hermione grabbed the spliff from his mouth, and laid down on the ground. "That's pretty, who's it from?" She inhaled once more from the spliff, and watched it as it died.

Ron smiled deeply and sat down by the spot she lay. "It's by Kierkegaard," he answered. Lying on the ground Hermione's stomach moved up and down slowly with each breath. His eyes became fascinated by her body's passive movements. As time moved on, his own body's machinations were slowly becoming aware. Despite constantly having a body, and experiencing all of life through a body, he often forgot he had one. He began to realise the feelings of his throat, and the surface of his eyes. These were the reasons he started to take drugs, to change how he perceived. And unlike alcohol, he did not make a total ass out of himself whenever he did weed.

He had changed much in the years he attended Hogwarts. For the first three years at the school, he, Hermione, and Harry had been inseparable. This changed in fourth year.

In the fourth year, to try and inspire school spirit, Hogwarts extended its Quidditch house league to include teams from Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute. The league, now eight teams, became the talk of the school. Each house came under heavy pressure to prove their superiority over one another. Gryffindor, the usual strongest house in Quidditch, had not won since the year before Ron came to the school and faced heavy pressure from its residents. Tryouts for the house became a spectacle attended by most members of the house. Harry and Ron decided to try out together, and Harry made it as the team Seeker.

Advanced courses in most subjects did not begin until year sixth. Hermione, who had been the top mark of their year, was put into a couple of fifth year courses closer to her level. Only a handful of her courses were of the fourth year level. Since she was taking courses a year ahead of her, few of her courses were with Ron and Harry. The higher level courses also entailed longer hours studying and working.

Ron slowly started to feel isolated from the others. Unlike the other two, his situation stayed mostly the same. His dissatisfaction with school continued, but unlike Harry he did not have somewhere else to turn his attention. A stasis of dissatisfaction and disassociation slowly built around him. The three of them still hung out, but it was less frequent. Ron spent much of his time in the common room talking with whoever walked by while the other two were busy. If possible he would tag along with Harry and the Quidditch team.

That year Hogwarts introduced the Christmas Yule Ball. It was a dance shared between the three schools in the Quidditch league. There was an increased pressure to inspire a sense of community between the schools so that their interactions would not only be adversarial. Harry made a surprising move and asked Hermione to be his date. Ron, at the time, had a serious crush on her. Through much reflection Ron later would realise it was his own fault for never making a move and for isolating himself from the other two.

Ron ended up going stag to the ball and left early. Harry and Hermione were enjoying themselves; he felt as if his presence was only hurting their enjoyment. Over the Christmas holidays he left to stay at his house, and when he returned Harry and Hermione were dating. Ron did well in hiding how well he disliked their relationship. Over time he grew to accept it, and his love for Hermione slowly dissipated.

The rest of the year turned out to be quite uneventful. Gryffindor lost in the semi-finals to one of the Durmstrang teams. HufflePuff pulled an upset in the finals, after their star player Cedric Diggory was injured the game before.

During their fourth year, Harry had mostly avoided the Quidditch team's secret drinking parties. When fifth year came along his opinion changed and he began attending. Ron tagged along a couple of times but rarely enjoyed them. He had never been one for large parties. Ron was also a lightweight, and often got far too drunk for his liking. Hermione would refuse to attend them, and this put a strain on her and Harry's relationship.

A week or two after the Christmas break, Harry broke up with Hermione. They had been dating for just over a year. Hermione became heart broken and went to Ron for consolation. Harry felt as if Ron was choosing her over himself, and stopped hanging out with him. Within a couple of days Harry found a new girlfriend, Cho Chang, and began hanging out with her friends. In frustration with Harry's actions, Hermione started to study for her O.W.L.s for hours everyday. The library became her place of solitude and safety.

Ron, who had felt increasingly left behind by the other two over the past two years, now felt as if he was finally alone. He became overly depressive, and would rarely leave his bed. Whenever he could skip his classes he did. The other boys he shared a room with would try to make excuses for his absence. Eventually he was suspended from the school for his poor attendance, and was suggested by McGonagall to try to get a prescription for anti-depresants.

He returned to the school two weeks later, feeling better than he had in months. Thanks to help from Hermione, he was able to catch up on the school work he had missed. He had missed a lot of class, and was not able to learn all of it, but it was enough. He passed all of his O.W.L.s. He only ended up receiving a single O, and it was surprisingly on Astronomy. Astronomy was not one of the classes he enjoyed, nor was it one he thought he was good at. Admittedly, he did not like any of his classes at the time, so it was not unique in this regard. Astronomy was a reportedly difficult course though, and only three other students recieved an O on their O.W.L. of it.

Over the summer, Harry, who had spent the past three summers at Ron's house, stayed there once more. Soon the two of them had made up, and became friends once more. Harry had been dumped two weeks before the summer by Cho Chang, and was more than willing to reconnect with his friend. Harry and Hermione were able to find a way to be friends once more, and the drama between the three of them soon became the past.

When the sixth year began, Ron decided he would take the course on precognition. An E in Astronomy was required for the course. Ron thought he might as well use his best mark, and try to find if he enjoyed the course. The class was small, only eight, and for the first time Ron found himself enjoying a course. The seventh year course in precognition happened right after his, and he often found himself sitting in for the class.

Admittedly, while he liked the class, it was his fellow students that made him stay. The seventh year students taking precognition, of which there was only six, were the coolest people Ron had ever met. They were existential, deep, smokers, and passive. There was a community between the precognition students, a camaraderie Ron felt accepted. It felt as if this was what he had been looking for throughout his years. Their parties were fun and where he was introduced to marijuana. He felt as if he had found a place to go when Harry and Hermione were busy.

Over time he found himself conforming to their sensibilities. When seventh year came around, and he was given the key to the precognition classroom, he felt fulfilled. Hermione, who was a prefect, was becoming more and more willing to participate in activities against the rules. Harry was never happy to see him smoke, but accepted most of his actions. Ron may not have been happy, -he questioned whether anyone could be- but he did feel as if he was where he wanted to be.

It was surprisingly pleasant, to sit where he was. Hermione was spread out, arms extended, trying to appreciate the beauty of the night sky on top of her. Ron's legs were crossed in front of him, and his eyes were dry. Silence blanketed the both of them together. The supernova over top of them told stories of gravity and energy far greater than what they could produce from their wands. Magic often made Ron feel as if he could change reality, yet this supernova was completely rewriting an entire solar system. Its teeth of yellow and grey shot outwards in an ecstatic dance.

Hermione tilted her head towards Ron and recited "'Contempt for happiness is usually contempt for other people's happiness, and is an elegant disguise for hatred of the human race.'"

For a couple of seconds Ron stared at Hermione perplexed, until he burst into laughter. He'd forgotten for a second that he'd just recited his own quote earlier. "That's a good one, who's it by?" Ron asked while his mind played with the idea for a moment.

"Russell," Hermione replied. She sat up from her position on the ground, and crossed her legs in a similar fashion as Ron. With one of her hands she stroked a strand of her hair behind her ear, while with the other she reached into Ron's robe. Her hand, with determination, searched his pocket but could not find what it was looking for. With a smile, Ron took out his cigarettes from his other pocket. Hermione smiled back at him and took the pack from his hand.

Hermione turned her body so that she and Ron were facing each other on the ground. Between two of her fingers she removed two cigarettes for the two of them. She placed one of them between her lips, and stared Ron in the eyes. Both of the whites of their eyes were red, both of the pupils of their eyes were lonely. She extended her arm towards him, and placed the second cigarette between his lips. Ron took out a match and stuck it on his robe. Cupping his hands, be brought it in front of his face and lit the tip. Hermione's hands stayed by her side and she only watched his movements. He shook the match till it went out, and threw it to his side.

She moved slowly closer until her face was only a few inches from his. With it still in her mouth, she moved her cigarette till it was touching the tip of Ron's. Ron watched intently, as her's slowly started to burn. She inhaled gently, her face crossed oceans. Smoke filled the space between the two of them.

Beat.

_My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for? _- Virginia Woolf


	2. Past

Part 2

_Can I make it better/with the lights turned on?_

The light slowly crept onto his face, but he decided he would try to ignore it. Early morning; morning; early afternoon; Ron did not enjoy any part of the first half of a day. Mornings after he had been out socializing were worse, for obvious reasons. Drugs always seemed to affect him in the morning; even weed would often burn him out. In his seventh year he tried to schedule his classes later in the day. Even with the later classes, he still found himself tired.

By some cruel sense of intervention, at the beginning of the year, he had been assigned the bed closest to the window. Of the eight beds in his room, of which only three were near windows, his was the closest. The rays would dance upon his face whenever the sun passed by the glass, and since his luck liked to be consistent, the window faced the east. Often times he was far too deep in the clutches of repose to be affected. Certain days, such as this day, he was sentient enough for each wakeful factor to drive him to consciousness. No matter how much he willed the sun to no longer affect him, he was trapped.

The dorm room was a miserable place most of the time. He had made a mental list of different inconveniences: the ceiling was too low, the windows did not open, the beds were too close to one another, the temperature was either too warm or too cold and the place had no soul. Gryffindor was filled with rooms of history. Culture flowed from each floor board on the wall. Unlike the other rooms, the seventh year dorm room was a place of emptiness and death. The surfaces were barren, no paintings or details could be found. It seemed to Ron that the room may have traditionally housed servants instead of students. Since Gryffindor was the house of honour, the seventh years were more than willing to sleep in the worst room, whether they liked it or not.

When Ron was younger he had read books written about times spent in the HufflePuff seventh year male dorm. Apparently since the school began, HufflePuff was known as the party house. Most of the young adult wizard fiction set in the UK, of which there was few, they always seemed to be about young men getting the most out of the HufflePuff facilities. He would have considered it hyperbole, had he not seen how beautiful the room was, and how it inspired the HufflePuff males to party until they were out of their fucking minds.

Ron had always been confused by the four different houses. Each house was supposed to be made up of people with similar qualities, yet he found this suspicious. HufflePuff was supposed to be made up of people who were more inclined towards art, yet the only thing he'd ever seen them inclined towards was raunchy parties.

Gryffindor had the reputation of honour and valour, yet he would hardly have attributed such a quality to a person walking down a street. Is honour real? Can there be a measure of the honour found in a person? As it seemed to him it was something attributed retroactively to a person who did something good. If a battle was won by fighting, then they fought with honour. If a battle was won by retreating, then they ran away honourably. All honour amounted to, when it came to Gryffindor students, was an expectation to follow the rules. But even then, were they expected to follow the rules because they were honourable, or were they honourable because they were expected to follow the rules.

Ron laid in his bed, swimming through thoughts and bouncing around ideas. His face was warmed by the sun too much to hide under covers and escape the light. Had he the dedication, he would have tried to change his state, which at the moment was mostly uncomfortable. For all of his will to change, he was still trapped between the waking world and sleep. In this state, each time he would consider moving, an overwhelming desire not built up from his arms to his eyes.

The room was exceptionally bright due to the nature light of the windows. Colours glowed slightly, and the metal frames of the beds reflected a light glow. You would have believed them enchanted by the way the light shone.

As his eyes tried to avoid the light, his gaze lowered towards the beds. All of the beds were covered with deep orange blankets, matching the house's colours. After seven years, Ron found himself tired of those colours. Most of his clothes had the house colours; most of his possessions had the house colours; most of the house had the house colours. He was trapped in a limited spectrum.

Most of the beds were unoccupied at the moment; their owners were probably in class or eating breakfast. The only person still sleeping was Harry. Harry's bed was next to Ron's; it had been that way since they were in first year. Ron was used to waking up next to the man, it was a crutch. Harry seemed to be deep in his sleep; he was probably in the clouds or dreams. When Ron had snuck back into the house, Harry's bed was unoccupied. Harry must have come back close to dawn, he was known for his long nights.

Harry's constitution had always surprised Ron. Most nights Harry would either be attending a party, sneaking off with his girlfriend of the week, or hanging out with Ron

and Hermione. If it affected him, he rarely showed it. While Harry's marks were never amazing, he was a successful student and known to be well behaved. By virtue of his rank as captain of the Quidditch team, Harry was the unofficial head of Gryffindor. He took the responsibility seriously and tried to exemplify the ideal Gryffindor student. In class he was attentive, well behaved and a serious worker. While he ate in the main hall he would act as a host, sparking conversation between as many people as he could. It seemed at times as if he had an endless amount of energy and an iron patience to talk with whomever was closest.

Back in fourth year, Harry was a different person. Before he joined the team Harry had trouble with confidence. He would often have to discuss something with Ron, to the most specific of detail, before he would do it. During his first couple of weeks on the team he was an outsider. He would rarely attend drinking parties, and would leave directly after practice to meet up with Ron and Hermione. Slowly though, Ron watched as Harry's demeanor changed. The first time Ron had ever seen him act without first discussing it, was when he asked out Hermione.

It did not help him to think about Harry's changes now. Nostalgia did not help anything. The past had occurred, but was gone. Life passes in a single moment, the present; each breath should care only for its second. Inside of Ron's head it often seemed as if his perceptions were laying themselves on top of on another. Now was also then, and then was also now. Places drifted into compound emotions, which were torn apart upon reflection. He wished he could be him at the moment, not him at all time.

Energy was slowly being spread throughout his body. His muscles were ready to be moved. For a second or two he tried to thank himself for his ability to rest as he did. Life was simple, it would be tragic otherwise. Then again, it was tragic by virtue of death; some were just more pleasant than others.

His back raised. Time was rushing by his face, yet all he felt was stasis.

A rumbling beside Ron alerted to Harry's wakefulness. Harry, a hand clutching his head, looked to be in an unpleasant state. Pain was spread across his face, probably suffering from the excessive drinking he often partook in. "Fuck me," an ample description, was mouthed by his lips.

Ron chuckled to himself slightly, though a part of him did feel sorry for Harry. In the past, Ron had been known for his hangovers. Ron, despite better judgment, had drank himself into oblivion often back in sixth year. Whenever someone had placed a cup before his eyes, it would only take a couple of seconds before he would have drank it all. Ron felt as if his dissatisfaction with life and with his sex-life had led to some strong neuroses, which he had felt like dealing with by avoiding it. In his life, he had not found a better catalyst towards total avoidance than alcohol. There were downsides to the strategy, such as the agonizing head, or the lack of solutions.

"Have a fun time last night?" Ron asked, raising from his bed. His feet touched the cold ground with a delicate touch. Often, depending on his schedule, he would have to rush out of his bed either to eat or to attend class. Today was one of the few days he did not have any class until the afternoon. He could be slow and pleasant at an almost limitless pace.

Unlike Ron, Harry was quick to wake up in the morning. He had the ability to open his eyes and leave his bed within a couple of seconds. "Fun night? Man, you won't believe how crazy it was. Cathy passed out pretty early in the night, which sucked. Around two or three, despite being fucked out of our minds, me and a bunch of the HufflePuff guys decided to crash a Slytherin party." Harry's face was pale; his eyes looked strained. He had probably only got upwards to four hours of sleep. As was normal, his mouth was stretched out in a smile. He was good at hiding his exhaustion, but not from Ron.

The trunk containing most of Ron's clothes and robes rested at the foot of his bed. He began to strip down as he approached it. "A Slytherin party? How were you guys able to find it?" he asked with a passing interest.

Harry, who was quicker than Ron, was already starting to put on his clothes for the day. His chest was well defined and muscular. Harry did not have a naturally athletic body; his shoulders were close together and his legs were short. But Harry's chest was chiseled as if he were Antinous. Ron looked well when compared to Harry, mostly due to his natural skinniness and weeks he didn't eat during his crippling depression. Harry was still beautiful, far beyond Ron, but Ron did not mind. Sometimes some people are better, and while switching good qualities would be nice, switching neuroses is never worth it.

"Remember, this isn't a Gryffindor party, so it's not like they spent a day or two trying to find the most hidden area. Anyways, Zach had been walking through the basement earlier in the night and found where the party was going to happen. He decided we needed to crash it, and brought it up all night. You know Zach, once he gets a plan in his head there's no chance of getting it out." Harry continued, not noticing Ron's eyes on him.

Ron did not actually know Zach. Harry often assumed Ron knew people when telling Ron a story. Ron had heard Zach's reputation of being the life of most HufflePuff parties and of being a total dick. It was said that a HufflePuff party had not truly began until Zach had either taken off his pants or hurt someone. Zacharias became the captain of the HufflePuff Quidditch team the same year Harry joined Gryffindor's team. Initially he was praised as a future Quidditch champion. Of all the students at Hogwarts, he was seen as having the best chance of becoming pro. As time passed and his popularity grew, so did the intensity of his parties. His quality of play started to decrease, his future career slipped between his fingers. He lived his life now almost as a dead man, one who had already lost in life. What is there for a dead man to fear?

Harry went on with his story, without much acknowledgement of Ron's presence. "So we show up to the party, it's about 2 or 3 at this point; Ernie somehow makes it to the music and puts on some awful techno. Zach and the rest of the HufflePuff guys start to fist bump to it, and I join cause why the fuck not?" Harry, who was now dressed, sat down on his bed waiting for Ron to be ready. "Vince walks up to Zach and tries to start some shit, and I back off. Zach, who must have been out of his fucking mind, punched Vince right in the face. Goddamn that was exciting.

"A bunch of the Slytherin guys looked like they were about to jump us; I'm freaking out in my head. Draco comes out of nowhere. He lays a good punch on Zach's face, but Zach tackles him to the ground. I almost felt like I should join in, as the third Quidditch captain at the party, but then I realized just how terrible of an idea that was."

It seemed strange to Ron, stories involving fighting. Most of the times he went out late at night, it was a generally pleasant time of relaxation. If Ron did nearly as much as Harry did at parties, then Ron would be burnt out. How Harry did it, Ron never knew. "Sounds pretty crazy," Ron tried to add to the conversation.

Ron had finished getting his clothes on, and the two of them left the seventh year dorms. The common room of Gryffindor was filled with younger students, each with equally uninteresting problems or trials to overcome. Harry said hello to most of the people they passed by, a general nicety Harry was known for.

They left the front door, and Harry went back into his story. "Right, so a couple of the Slytherin and HufflePuff guys break up the fight, and the HufflePuff guys leave. Now this is where it gets weird, once Draco dusted himself off after the fight, he walked up to me and started talking. I was a little bit taken aback, but I tried to act naturally. We continued even after the HufflePuff guys are gone, so I'm all alone at the party chilling with Draco. How fucking weird is that?"

"What were you guys talking about?" Ron asked. The two of them started down the stairs, in the direction of the eating hall.

Harry seemed to be in thought, and took a while to start again. "I don't really remember; I was pretty trashed at the time. Quidditch was definitely brought up a couple of times, joking about our rivalry of sorts. Wish I knew more, but that's all that's coming back.

"It gets a little stranger too. By about four or five, I don't remember, the party was dwindling down. I was sitting in this circle of Slytherin people, Draco included. A couple of the people decided they were going to go to sleep. I'm about to leave, but then Draco suggests we, plus a couple of others, go to see the sunrise. So we leave the basement and climb a tower, it's me, Draco, Pansy, Daphne, Theo; I think that's it. Fuck, weird, weird," Harry seemed disoriented.

Ron laughed to himself at Harry's expense. "I'm surprised Nott would have went with you, though you could have went with much worse people than that."

When Harry first attended Hogwarts, back in first year, he was originally sorted into the Slytherin house. Back then he was an awkward nerd, who was still suffering from the abuse he suffered while living with his uncle and aunt. Harry's infamous name was known beyond him, and made him an easy target of bullying.

Draco Malfoy was one of the many children of former death-eaters attending the school. The Malfoy family was aristocratic and held a distinguished ancestry. Draco's father was believed to have been a personal follower of Voldemort, while his grandfather was rumored to have been one of Voldemorts financial benefactors. Draco's father was even said to have been one of Voldemort's three lieutenants. Soon after the death of Voldemort, both of Draco's parents were arrested and found guilty of murder, extortion, kidnapping, and many other crimes in association with Voldemort.

Draco was forced to live with his grandfather who, despite being charged with accessory to murder, was never found guilty of any crimes. Most of Draco's childhood was spent alone in his grandfather's empty mansion. His only friends were the great paintings and pictures lining the walls, each with their characturistic personalities.

When Draco started to attend Hogwarts, he, just as Harry, was suffering from his traumatic childhood. His hands were delicate and awkward. The two of them became friends, but they were friends of convenience instead of admiration.

As twelve years olds do, different cliques started to form. Draco was given respect by a few of the kids for his sharp tongue and fast wit. Eventually Draco was put into the situation where he needed to choose either between Harry, or the other Slytherin boys. One of the few things Harry had never spoken about to Ron was the details of these days. All Ron was aware of, was that Draco chose the other Slytherin boys.

Bullying towards Harry started to intensify after he was no longer friends with Draco. Finally, on one night, Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise were pushing Harry around. Harry tripped and fell, breaking his glasses and causing him to need stitches on his cheek. The three boys would later claim Harry fell on his own accord, while Harry insisted they had pushed him. In the days that followed a compromise was reached instead. Harry was taken out of Slytherin and put into Gryffindor.

In the years that passed Harry and Draco became well known rivals. Just as Harry was becoming the unofficial head of Gryffindor, Draco was doing the same in Slytherin. The two of them even became their Quidditch team captains at the same time, by some coincidence. Soon they became the anthropomorphic representations of the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. Over the years, it became mostly hyperbole, with Draco mellowing out in his last two years. He was still fierce in Quidditch, but less in all else.

Harry and Ron reached the dining hall, only to find a handful of people eating there. The Gryffindor table was almost completely abandoned, while the HufflePuff and Slytherin tables had a couple of people who had probably attended the parties the nights before. Harry turned to Ron and said "hey, I'll talk to you later. I want to tell the HufflePuff dudes about what happened after they left." Ron nodded acknowledgement. It was obvious that Ron was noticeably uninterested in talking with the HufflePuff guys, and Harry walked away without offering Ron to join him.

At the Slytherin table, near one of the ends, sat Theodore Nott. Theodore sat alone. Ron moved and joined him.

The dining room was known as one of the most magical rooms in the school. A charm was placed around its walls so that it could stretch to fit all who wished to dine there. Most of the time the room was just large enough to sit the three hundred students who studied at Hogwarts. The room was rumored to be able to extend and fit ten thousand people if it needed, though the specific logistics were never told to the students. Hogwarts was filled with rooms which could change in every manner, if someone willed.

"Hey man," Ron greeted.

Theodore turned his head towards Ron. His eyes were a blood read; his face was painted a light crimson. Ron thought Nott looked awful; but, Nott slowly smiled, his chap lips growing and stretching. With a smirk, Nott moved his left hand to his mouth, "I knew you'd join me, the paintings cried in lament of your approach." Beat.

Theodore Nott, or Nott as he liked to be referred, was Ron's closest friend of the precognition students. While Ron thought himself good at precognition, Nott was a genius. At times it seemed as if Nott was living on another plane of existence, watching people move only through their magical auras. He moved through the air as if it were a sea, where each ripple was curious and tender.

Nott grew up in a wealthy pure-blood family. Throughout his childhood, he was surrounded by buzzing sounds and people who were too important to notice. The darkness around each person's eyes was misleading. For years he believed he was witnessing the devil dance through the people he knew, yet eventually he came to realize there was nothing there; not behind their eyes; not behind his back; not in his heart. Instead, all he could find was fear.

Similar to Draco, and many Slytherin students, his parents were known death-eaters. Unlike Draco, Nott's parents were never proven to have been associated with Voldemort and were able to escape prosecution. A shadow followed his each movement, just as it haunted many from Slytherin. How does someone cope with the greatest of crimes? How does one live with one's own blood?

When Nott started to attend Hogwarts, he was a well known loner. He was disinterested in clicks and popularity. While people such as Draco were trying to ruin Harry's life in a vain attempt at self-gratification, Nott kept to himself. An obsession of existence and rhythm covered his sight, till his hopes dragged.

It was always assumed he was a bright individual, but his marks never showed it. He would sit quietly in class. The few times he spoke were to correct others mistakes; there was no other individual who had caught Hermione's false words more than him. He was a surgeon of ideas, with rough fingers.

In the last two or three years, Nott had opened up considerably. Draco had helped him socialize slowly, as Draco believed Nott was an equal of his. Draco appeared to have two or three different sets of friends, Nott was one by himself. The two of them would discuss life and existentialism; failure and heartache; Euclidean geometry and whatever they had just learned about in class.

When Ron started precognition, he had never directly spoken to Nott. Ron had been by Hermione when she had debated something with Nott, but Ron never said a word. Ron had been fascinated by Nott's stare, how Nott would never look Hermione in the eye when the two spoke. Later, in seventh year, when Nott admitted to his love of Hermione to Ron, Nott claimed to be uneasy by the devil he finally saw in her pupils. Ron never understood the comment.

During the precognition classes, Ron felt as if Nott was someone who understood precognition the same way as himself. Ron knew Lavender Brown much better, yet she seemed to think of precognition as another form of divination, which was far from the truth. Plus, Ron always felt uncomfortable next to Lavender, her shirt was always just too exposing, just too intoxicating.

Ron was himself shocked when he felt his life changed after his precognition class, and Nott was his compatriot in their exploration. Precognition is simply knowledge of something in advance of its occurrence. Wizards are able to read magical resonance surrounding certain objects. The auras create a resonance which can be accessed by retroactive psychokinesis. Many spells are achieved in a similar fashion; apparition is performed by bending the magical auras in violent ways, forcing the catapulted movement of particles.

The readings rely mostly on emotional weight of the magical auras, which often are rarely sufficient to mean anything. On study, one finds the emotional value found in the magical waves is very little. Magic, the world, and the human's effect are mostly empty. The world is mostly indifferent. If one is able to fine tune their resonance, they are able to predict movements by predisposed actions, yet it is all estimations.

Precognition, and readings of magical auras, was once the premier form of understanding the nature of magic. Yet, it soon became apparent that it was the study of magic through magic, which causes many hurdles of objectivity. After Frege's publication of Begriffsschrift, a Greek wizard named Metis Viron mixed Frege's logic with arithmancy and was able to construct an analytic, more scientific definition of Magic. Precognition slowly started to exist as an intellectual exercise, but no longer a definitive perception.

If Ron was honest, the actual precognition and future reading did not interest him as much as the implications of such a study. He was fascinated with life, and it was a wonderful place to be. If he really cared only about the future, he would be more interested in divination, for it is a much more direct practice. Divination is the usage of magic to try and predict the future while precognition is the use of an extrasensory ability to understand magical auras, which through the emotional aspects of human affected magic, can give knowledge of something before it happens. Similar outcomes, but different means. To Hermione it was the same.

Nott sat now at the table, but his mind was probably touching the little indents of space near the wall, to examine the droves of past loves and animosity. Precognition was one of the most difficult of magical practices, which was why an E in astronomy was required to take it. Ron found himself jealous sometimes of the reach and places in Nott's head. Though, it was Ron who was given the key of the astronomy room by Sinistra; Ron was the sixth year who the seventh year precognition students always invited to their parties. It was self-gratifying, but pleasant.

The two of them had explored the existential angst together with joyful innocence. Trappings of nothingness are tough, but soft on the tongue without disruption. Ron was obsessed with reading the magic around his hands, to be, to be, to be; Nott was obsessed with the reading of the purely absurd, the dancing epilepsy of the meaningless. If they were to converge, maybe they would meet at a state, or maybe they would divulge into a form of morphine and love.

Ron, tired of the absurdity contained in silence, tried to find some words to fill up space. "I heard you had a crazy night."

With a curious look, Nott tried to see if the devil was in Ron's eyes, but just as always Nott found nothing. The retina, the iris, the pupil, they were all that could be found in the eyes. "That Harry friend of yours, he can really party." Only in Hermione's eyes did Nott ever find anything. Initially he believed it to be the devil he always searched for, what he wished to converse and prove. Maybe it was actually in his mind.

Laughing at Nott's comment, different visions of what Harry could have done flashed before Ron's eyes. Wasn't it just like Harry not to include all of what he did the night before? A smile cracked on Ron's lips, yet it quivered ever so slightly. No longer was Ron the confident, instead he was another slate on which to impart an impression. The Harry of construction instead of the real Harry, the Harry of blood and bone. "How so?" Ron asked, with an innocent tone.

"Oh I don't know. He showed up with a bunch of HufflePuff douchebags, and Draco invited him to stay. Within a couple of minutes he and Draco were doing shots and laughing as if they had forgotten they were enemies. Then, near the end of the party, Harry insisted we all go and watch the sunrise. I've never actually done that, so I agreed. He, Draco, a couple of the girls, and I get up there, and within a couple of minutes he and Pansy start making out." Nott seemed excited to relay the story. He was not one for partying, this was probably one of the first times he was in the know.

"No fucking way!" Ron started to convulse in laughter. Harry making out with Pansy created a more surreal and hilarious picture in his head than anything else he had imagined. "Pansy ... no way, no way," it seemed too farfetched for Ron to hold a grasp of. Pansy was beautiful, but was also a miserable person. They had spent years making fun of her. Hermione had held the real grudge; Harry and Ron were more than willing to agree with her complaints.

Nott stared at Ron, and a grin slowly grew wide across his face. "I read it too. In my head I was like 'holy shit, those two are going to make out'. Now, I was kind of drunk, so I wasn't in a position to believe any cognition, yet it actually happened!"

The two of them shared a laugh. It was strange to talk to Nott in this way. His demeanor was almost exclusively serious. All people strive to some level of pleasure, a Nietzsche life affirming, drunken stories seemed as the easiest way to achieve it. "Do you think Draco minded? I mean, I know he and Pansy went out for like four years." Ron continued. It had always seemed strange to him that for the first couple of years at Hogwarts, the two most miserable people in his grade were a couple. It had probably affected his perspective on monotony and proximity.

The tone in Nott's voiced changed slightly, enough for Ron to notice. "I'm sure he didn't, he was too busy making face with Daphne."

Ron understood what made Nott's voice change. Harry had told him all the people who had went to watch the sunrise. Only the five of them, Harry, Draco, Pansy, Daphne and Nott were present at dawn. Nott was the odd man out. "That sucks, that you were a third wheel," Ron tried to tread lightly on the subject.

"I didn't mind. The sun was wonderful anyway." Nott stared into the air; Ron understood what Nott was doing. Nott was looking into the magical auras of the room to find comfort. It was not something to be proud of, and something most people would not notice. Only, Nott had been the one to teach Ron how to do it. The signs were there, the motive was as well.

Trying to lighten up the mood a little, Ron joked: "you should just go to more of those parties. If Pansy was willing to make out with Harry, then she must be willing to make out with anyone if she's that drunk." Ron laughed at the comment, and Nott tilted his head back towards Ron.

It was times like this the two of them wished to read the auras around each other. They both knew there had been too many people in the room over the morning, so whatever they read would be inaccurate. But if you give someone the skill to understand those around them better, then its hard not to want to use it. They'd be able to help each other if they understood each other better.

"I wouldn't want to get too close to Pansy. You've never had to live in the same house as her. I know you and me disagree on a lot of people in Slytherin, but trust me Pansy is not a member of that set. I think she's just as awful of a person, far worse than almost anyone else I know." Nott, probably annoyed he couldn't use his precognition to get a better handle of their conversation, gave Ron a stare to convey his seriousness.

There was a rumor that floated around the school that Nott had been one of the individuals responsible for Draco and Pansy's break up. Ron had heard it spoken to him by a couple of voices; Lavender claimed she heard it from a reputable source. The details in each version changed. One version had Draco confide in Nott after cheating with Pansy, with one of Pansy's friends overhearing. Another version just had Nott sit Draco down, and convince Draco to break up with Pansy.

Ron understood Nott's apprehension of Pansy, but it would have been nice to know just how personal their grudge was. "Yeah, you're right. I almost feel sorry for Harry. No wonder he did not tell me that part of the story."

"He told you the story already?" Nott seemed let down that he was not the first person to tell Ron. If it did affect him, he shrugged it off quickly. "Yeah, I know I wouldn't have told anyone. Feel free to spread the rumor, Draco's already got a head start. Anyways, enough on that; how was your night? Do anything interesting?"

It took him a second to remember. Beat. "I got high with Hermione in the astronomy room. It was nice." His own memories and actions floated back to him. He had been caught up with Harry's adventure; he had forgotten his own pleasant journey into the dying sun.

"Cool" Nott replied. "You should invite me along next time you do that. I'm not generally partying with the two most popular kids in school." Ron always felt awkward when inviting someone along when he hung out with Hermione or Harry. The three of them were separate from everyone else for so long, he longed to recreate those days.

Ron laughed along with Nott's joke anyway. To try and stay consistent he added his own jab. "Who knows, maybe you'll have better luck with her than Daphne or Pansy." Ron bit his tongue. Nott had a strange relationship with Hermione, it was probably best not to bring it up with him.

While Hermione and Nott were miles apart marks wise, they still saw the world at a comparable level. One night, when Ron and Nott were both high and alone in the astronomy room, Nott admitted to Ron how he had a fixation with Hermione's eyes. Ron still did not get. Even after Ron tried to read Nott's aura, all Ron got was emptiness.

Nott looked at Ron, his face stoic and rough. "I don't think I could go after Hermione, no matter how much I wanted. You're too close to her," the words drifted through his still lips.

"I'm not too close to her," Ron tried to reply. He admitted to himself confusion. The line scribbled into a hundred different paths didn't clearly connect. He was still as lost and detached as ever.

"I know you deny it but," Nott stopped momentarily to organize his thoughts. "You're much too close to only be friends, and don't give me any 'like my sister' bullshit," he went on. Nott's eyes raised towards the ceiling, only this time it was not to read a magical aura, it was to avoid Ron's gaze.

Before thought could catch up, Ron's mouth started to move. "Maybe? I don't know. Maybe you're right, I love her. And not in some kind of metaphorical abstract way, but a primal physical love." Beat. "But that's not even it. I think I love anything, or rather I have a lot of built up love within me, trying to escape. If Lavender offered to let me be close to her, just in a cuddling kind of way, not even sex, then I would accept it. I know you're against Pansy, but maybe her too. It's not picky, it just wishes to be targeted somewhere.

"I think I strive for some sort of meaning or attachment, cause I have none. My friends are empty shells, without attachment or meaning. My conversations consist of jokes passed between mouths, but not meaning. There's no meaning to be found in the world either. Everything's empty. There's no life after death, or some great goal to be achieved, instead all there is, is existence. I wish I was okay with that. I want to be physical, to just be: exist. No more. I want Ron to be bone, and blood, and flesh, yet instead he's a constructed personality, with anxieties and neuroses. All I am is built by perception and will, yet there is nothing really there. I'm a tightrope walking beginning to all over, cause there's nothing beside me, but nothing in front of me either. If I had attachment, closeness, anything, then maybe I would change, maybe everything would help."

Ron closed his mouth and stared at the ground. Was that it? Was all Hermione meant to him was a selfish desire to affirm himself? Maybe something was wrong with him, but everything had always been wrong. He had tried so many drugs to fix himself, to organize his thoughts, but they didn't help. Had he lost his soul or was it gone from the beginning?

Nott saw the devil dancing again, just as he knew it had always been there. Only, it wasn't in the eyes, or behind him. It was everything, for it was nothing.

Beat.

_This tree stands lonely here in the mountains; it grew high above man and beast. And if it wanted to speak it would have nobody who could understand it, so high has it grown. Now it waits and waits—for what is it waiting? It dwells too near the seat of the clouds: surely, it waits for the first lightning. _Nietzsche


	3. Future

Part 3

_Our Endless Days_

It is often hard to describe something that is not there. How does someone sum up the beauty of the void? And if this void is not a direct negation, but rather a metaphor for lonliness, how does the music play? Is it soft or hard; light or heavy; easy or hard? Her face is undefined to him, yet he strives for it, aches for it, pains for it, and his grasp remains empty.

The different details before Ron's eyes were irrelevant to him. His organs were indifferent to his contemplation. Instead his body functioned as it should: to sustain life. There was nothing more fascinating than how the body, something created by pure chance, purely indifferent to each of its different parts, could create something as wonderful, as devastating, as rational thought. The eyes survived not because they care about sight, but rather they survived by probability. The same eyes could be on some different person, some different creature, and they would not care. Humans function by luck, not by dreams, hopes, fears, love or hate.

If his body did care about his being, then he would no longer be sad. The hormones in his brain would not make him feel unsatisfied and unreasonable, they would cause joy. But instead of a rational existence, his is one of circumstance and compound thoughts. Reality involves his unhappiness, not because of physical maladies such as hunger, but instead because of self examination. Why? Why does this hurt?

The different bodies surrounding him were separate from him, for his attention was directed towards the magic aura around his hands. He had been distracted over the course of the day by his own mental stagnation. Now, after his precognition class, he finally felt stimulated. Each movement, he realized now, could be used to explore and to conceive. No matter how asinine the different parts he would try to accept, there was some kind of wonder in exploring.

For whatever reason, Ron felt away from himself. It was ironic that he wished to understand physicality, yet his search was performed by feeling the unseen. Were magical auras any different from the misguided metaphysics clouding everyone's eyes? Was he searching through a paradox? Was there any truth to be found in such absurdity, or was the realization of the absurd required to finally grasp the truth he desired? The mountain was climbable; he only wished he had a path upon the rock face.

The other students were in some sort of a discussion. After precognition, it was common for a couple of them to hang outside of the classroom. Ron was generally more engaged, but something was holding him back at the moment. Maybe it was his discussion with Nott earlier in the day. He had said some really personal things; things he wondered now whether he should have said. Regret is a tough cage to escape from, and he found himself slowly being locked into it. While he may have felt uncomfortable about his actions, it probably did not matter much in the larger scheme of things. He and Nott had admitted many personal things to one another. It was healthy to sometimes let neuroses leave the body. Ron wondered if he was more ashamed to actually be himself than ashamed he had admitted to it.

Of the eight students in the precognition class, only about half stayed. Ron sat by himself on the floor. The other three were standing. While there was only an arm's reach between Ron and the group, he felt separate from them, isolated. There was not only the physical barrier of space, but the mental barrier of dedication. They were discussing the direct benefits of a precognition. Was the most efficient way to read the future from magical auras? Was divination, a direct usage of magic, more effective by virtue of the act? Ron could not care less about the question at the moment. Instead he felt like falling into the vortex of absolute freedom and practicing existing.

Nott often started these sorts of debates with the other students in the class. While Nott was the most gifted, he often admitted he was unsure most of the time what he was doing. Whenever he could, he would ask someone else a question on how they were preconcoging, and what kind of answers were they receiving.

The other two discussing with Nott were Hannah Abbot and Terry Boot. Initially Lavender Brown had joined them, but she could never stand Nott's questions. She had sat next to Ron and joined him in observing the other three students talk. Ron had felt absorbed in her aura for moments, trying to feel each different accent and emotion. As if he had stopped functioning, Lavender had the affect of commandeering his complete attention whenever she was near. They had become closer since they both started the precognition classes together in sixth year as the only students from Gryffindor. For Ron, when they were together still felt slightly voyeuristic. She was allowing his attention to become obsessed, but he only watched and studied her. Ron had always been confused to why the two of them had never started to date, but he knew perfectly well why. He was far too afraid.

Since Lavender had left, Ron had not even tried to catch up with the others' conversation. He enjoyed looking at Hannah Abbot. Lavender and Hermione were both attractive, but in a different way from Hannah. Hannah had a constructed irony to her good looks. There was a conscious decision for every stray hair on her head. Hermione looked similar, but her look was more unintentional, and less well kept because of it. Lavender built her look up without the slightest tinge of irony, each piece was placed with the same dedication as Hannah but with almost a naïve strive for the form of beauty.

Ron enjoyed looking at them, studying their views on image. One of the first parts of studying precognition is to understand intention when examining a magical aura. If the intention of a person can be defined into reasonable parameters, then the next step is to try and isolate what the intention will cause. The intention is difficult to get exact, and often takes long periods of time to get right.

When he first started precognition, he wanted to understand the entirety of a person's intention. He decided the person he had the most access to be himself, so why not try and objectively get an understanding of his personal intention? What he found would shock, and change him, but also saved him from ever returning to the depression he suffered in fifth year. He found his emotions did not actually exist; his pity, love, hate were all illusions covering his eyes. The only intentions were physical needs, to eat, to shit, to fuck.

"What about you Ron?" Nott asked offhand.

It took Ron a couple of seconds to realize someone was talking to him. He quickly stopped touching the magical auras around him and returned to the visible world. "What? Sorry, I stopped paying attention for a second there," he responded swiftly, trying not to show how he had no idea what they were talking about at all.

The three who were discussing looked a little confused at Ron. Nott injected "We're talking about precognitions we've got right."

"Right," Ron smiled slightly, trying to fake knowledge of the circumstance. The others watched him with continued intensity. Ron stood up slowly to try and extend the time he had to think. Still slightly confused, he decided to add "why?"

Terry laughed a little to himself, not as an insult but rather as a relief of tension. What they were discussing had probably become heated, and Ron had just shattered the allure of self importance they were all feeling towards the different sides. With a half smile, Terry added "we've been trying to establish whether we've done more successful future readings from divination or precognition."

Before Ron could add anything, Nott quickly interjected "though that would not necessarily mean either was better on an objective scale. We may collectively be better at one of the topics, perhaps because of more exposure, or due to a stronger simplicity of one of the two fields." The last comment was a tongue in cheek statement. Nott followed the joke with a sharp stare at Terry.

"Trying to determine which we got more correct would at least give us some sort of indication of the effectiveness of the two, for us," Hannah said to try and diffuse the situation a little.

With empty eyes, Ron tried quickly to think of something to say. Now that the other three had all made comments, it was going to expected that he said something next. While Ron liked to think of himself as good at precognition, he had to admit he was no good at thinking on his feet or debates. He only seemed to add half formed ideas, defeat self created straw men, and contradict himself a few seconds later.

Feeling the pressure, Ron started to word out sentences hoping it would make sense to the others. "I don't generally try to find out about the future. It's not really what interests me. I like examining and studying the different elements of the magic, but rarely do I actually try to see the future. I would add that I don't think I ever got a good prediction from divination."

Nott responded quickly. "Exactly, it takes so much study and precision, how are we supposed to have the patience? Precognition is bloody hard, probably one of the hardest forms of magic, we're in god damned high school." Whenever Nott had these sorts of conversations he had an intimidating presence. Ron understood why Lavender would often avoid Nott's debates. While Nott admitted often he only debated for fun, it was sometimes hard to imagine playfulness as his goal. Instead, he would fight with a knife for a tongue, desperately searching for something to stab.

It did seem as if Hannah and Terry understood the cheekiness of the discussion they were currently engaged in. If they did not, Ron could not possibly understand why they would continue. If it was not going to be too distracting, Ron would try to read their intention or guess at it. As it were, he needed to pay attention to what the others were saying if he was going to catch up to the others in the conversation.

Terry was the next in the group to talk. "Even if that's true, that does not mean precognition is necessarily better. For if one studies divination, to the same extent as you would need to study precognition for it to be good, your divination would also become more refined and accurate." Terry was always an intimidating boy. He stood at a commanding six foot five since he was fourteen. Unless Hagrid was around, few stood taller than him in a room. Along with his height, Terry was skilled with his tongue. While his grades were average for a Ravenclaw, he could twist words with ease as naturally as some people walk. He and Nott often found themselves dueling each other in some intellectual fashion.

Unlike Nott, who had been content by himself throughout his time at Hogwarts, Terry was a social animal. Since the beginning of school Terry had known how to use his wit to his advantage, talking up a storm with whoever happened to walk by. No matter where he went, his loftiness made sure everyone would be aware of his presence. Within a couple of minutes he could make a friend with just about everyone, all it took were the proper words.

It must have been a little bit lonely for him, standing so far above everyone else, literally and figuratively. Terry often wondered had he manipulated everyone to the point that there were no genuine relations between him and everyone else. Over time his confidence dwindled, as he realized that no matter how direct he tried to be, his mouth would turn into something he didn't mean. Each confrontation with someone else became a purely one-sided affair, where he would be leading and the other would follow. Empathy, hate, love, slowly turned into responses to different commands. Faith turned into an argument from ignorance, and he lost the hope he so dearly desired.

"Can any of us really know which is better after further study? Unless we have studied them, which none of us have, we're just talking out of our asses. Can we just agree that divination is easier to learn at a basic level, and thus divination is probably more accurate for us?" Hannah flashed a smile as she finished asking.

Hannah was unlike many of the members of HufflePuff. The people she was most commonly associated with, such as her best friend Ernie Macmillan, were known for their dedication to partying. Ron had always assumed this tendency was due to their need to be accepted. A HufflePuff sorting was a sorting of mediocrity. Especially for those who were not artistically inclined. Hannah had an aura of indifference around her. She cared not for what others thought of her or her actions. Whenever she partied, or chose not to, it seemed to come from a genuine affirmative choice of her own. She was a unique anomaly in the sea of relations. A sea Ron had been drowning in since he could remember. He often wondered if others felt the same way.

Nott was not inclined to accept defeat in the argument, despite Hannah's offer of a reasonable settlement. "The only problem with that is that divination is not easier to learn. You're just retroactively thought it predicted the future better, since more time has passed since you started to learn divination. There has just been more opportunities for the predictions from divination to turn out correct than from precognition."

It took a few seconds for anyone to respond to Nott's counter. An urge to add his two cents slowly built up in Ron, but he knew he had nothing to add. Divination was a discipline Ron never understood. Of the courses in his first couple of years, it was unique in the way that Hermione was piss poor at it as well. A power struggle arose briefly, since Hermione was always the one who would help him through classes he found difficult. For the first time they were equals foraging into the unknown. Ron always thought divination required some sort of natural inclination; Hermione always thought the whole thing was bloody irrational.

"Well," Hannah added. "If you want to get into such specifics and implications, then it will be impossible to determine one over the other. So long as I'm the authority of my experiences, then I can say which of the two disciplines was easier for me to learn. This whole thing becomes banal if we're not willing to generalize and chose a side."

The conversation was coming to its end, whether they'd reach a conclusion or not. The fun gained from discussing was slowly draining away. Hannah's face was disinterested. A silence slowly passed over top of them, as they all came to realize the passing of the topic.

Ron always wondered about trying to predict the future. He never initially meant for his discipline to be in such a field. Personally he had always had problems with the implications of what such actions cause. It had been a long time since he had directly tried to read the future from the magical auras. Generally feeling the auras and the intentions were good enough for him.

One moment always came to mind whenever he thought about predicting the future. A couple of months before, he and Hermione were getting high in the precognition room. She was giggling about how she was ready to leave the school when she graduated, but sad at the same time. There was a direct connection between her thoughts and her mouth, or at least it seemed this way to Ron.

Tempted by the situation, Ron decided that considering the context, he could determine the intention of her aura without much trouble. He wondered whether or not he should try to read the future from it, but was overcome by curiosity. There had never been a more perfect situation for him to get a reading that could actually be accurate. Generally people's intention is so well hidden, whatever reading is lost in ambiguity of a specific element. Here he could try to isolate and eliminate the ambiguity,

What he read from her aura, was something he would never forget. It hung behind his neck where ever he went. Each action seemed to have it itching behind him. All he wished was to scratch it away. Yet he knew it would be there until he finished at Hogwarts, at which point it would be too late to change anything. At times he wondered whether or not Nott's fascination with seeing things in people's eyes was a similar problem. Ron always wondered why Nott saw something in Hermione's but never made a comment about his.

The initial touch of her aura let of something Ron was not expecting: love. For the longest time Ron had believed that emotions, strong emotions, were hard to find in auras, yet her aura was surrounded by it. She had this large, direct, love for him. All of the time he had feelings for her, there was an equal, full amount of feelings back. Ron wondered whether it was always there, or had it grown since she dated Harry. It had always been there for him; it had always been there for him.

When he started to dig a little deeper, was where it changed. She loved him in a way she did not understand. It was trapped beneath her skin, and she could not express it. All she knew how to do was be friendly with him. She was scared. He did not know why, but she was scared to let this love move her. She could only do what she was comfortable with.

They were close, this was needed, but as long as proximity was reached, then she could do no more. Even if he was to approach her, call her on his feelings, then it would still not break her skin. Her physical needs were mostly filled, she was well fed, exercised, sexually satisfied without anyone else. No matter how she would like, her need for Ron was not something in her muscles. There was no ache. Instead it was trapped in her rationality. For they only had a small amount of time left together. It should be pleasant and extended, not intense and ruin everything else.

In his head, Ron always wanted to continue as friends with Hermione. Yet, as he was aware and so was Hermione, this will change. The problem of a life that continues is the longer you live the more things change. They will no longer live in the building in six months. Hermione will, due to graduating top class from the most prestigious witch school in Britain, go to a prestigious university anywhere in the world.

Ron will not.

They may be best friends at the moment, and will continue that way until the end of school; their paths will diverge in a violent way. Ron, despite being closest to Harry and Hermione, will probably choose which ever university Nott chooses. That way they will be able to continue their exploration in precognition and philosophy, in debauchery and drugs.

With the knowledge of this reading, Ron hoped he could break down Hermione's barriers. If she was not going to be the braver one, then surely he must. The problem was Ron felt the exact same way as Hermione. It was too late, in a sense, to make a meaningful move. They could help dictate each other's lives, only if they saw it as an extension of their own. Dating for a couple of months would not do this, Ron questioned whether he could do it at all.

At times Ron would laugh at the irony. He had been sorted into Gryffindor, the house of the brave and honourable. His whole family called Gryffindor home. When the time finally arose, when he needed to be brave, he tripped. Now they were stuck in a limbo of relation. They would be torn either way, if they tried or not. It was rational to stay still, but every bone; every finger; every time they were close; he wished to touch. He wished he could hold her. And he knew she wished the same. Trapped in an irrational rationality, whereby the body and the mind are at war between what is good and bad. Is loss bad if inevitable? If Loss is at the end of all of the tunnels, does it matter whether or not how intense the loss is?

When he attends his further studies, he was looking forward to specialize his precognition to not have to deal with the future. Emotions, loss, death, how the world really worked, was far too present when seeing what will come next; what will not come next. Currently all they ever touch in class is simple, direct, cause and effect. Or they would study the stars, and how much they do not care.

He wished to be his supernova, under which he kept bathing. After millions of years its life was coming to an end, yet it did not care. Existence existed, but now it was going to stop. The atoms will continue, but the compound will be gone forever into nothingness; an emptiness without qualia; without any dimensions. An emptiness in which no words can describe, no words can imply. A lack of all.

If he would stop caring about the end, then he could actually care about the now. Still, what he had said to Nott was ever present in his mind. He had this great love in him, hoping to be directed at whoever was near. Earlier he had been enthralled by Lavender, something he wondered whether she was reading. Maybe when he read this love in Hermione it was only directed at him for how close he was. Ambiguity still festered, despite his best at isolating the intention.

He was always afraid now of searching for the future in auras. The last thing he wanted to discover was when he would lose; when he would fail; when life would not work out as he hoped. Sanity was based on the chance, the chance that things will one day be okay if they aren't at the moment. They never will be, but the lie is essential. Society is entirely based on a death denying culture. How different life would be if everyone were always aware they were going to one day die. After they die they will leave physicality and turn into a deep anti existence, of which their only experience of happened before birth. It would be a wonder draining the blood into despair, but of ever consciousness. The first steps would be hard. The first steps would be bloody hard. When the mountain is climbed, then it would be them on top who would be able to look down and dictate their life; free from limitations; free from fear or hope; free from the beginning; but ever aware of the end.

Trying to purge his mind of such thoughts, Ron turned to the other three. "Hey, I know this is a little short notice, but do you guys want to have a party in the precog classroom tonight? It's been a while since the last time we had one of those."

Nott nodded his head strongly. A smile grew on his face, a rare occurrence. "I feel like that's exactly what I would like to do, I'd be down. Lets try to make sure it's a mostly precognition group, the parties are more fun when that way."

"There are only seven of us Nott, even if we invite some of the sixth years that'll still be a pretty small group," Hannah added. She seemed deep in thought for a minute whether she wanted to attend or not. "I'd be down too, I guess. I'll probably bring Ernie along. We're supposed to study together for a test next week, but I'm sure he'd rather go to a party. Even if it is with you guys."

Before Terry could say anything, Ron interjected, "I don't think I'll invite the sixth years, sometimes it's better to just have us." It always felt awkward whenever Ron was put into a situation where he had to be proactive and talkative, which was required whenever the sixth years attended the party. It was tough for him, for he knew how much good the seventh year precognition students had done for him when he was in sixth year. Each time they would come to a party Ron felt as if he had to make sure they felt accepted. He continually felt like he was failing them whenever he tried.

He always felt as if he was failing, no matter what he did. He often wished he knew why he felt this way, or why he could not convince himself to the contrary.

"Well," Terry began dryly, "if Ernie's coming I sure as hell am." A playful smile slowly stretched across his cheeks. "Could we try to have Harry Potter come as well? He's a delightful chap."  
Ron started to shake his head slightly. "There's no guarantee with him. Harry always has plans, we'll see if I can talk him out of whatever he has planned for tonight." Harry had attended a couple of the parties Ron held, but generally Ron gave Harry weeks notice. Ron had never planned a spontaneous party before, and he was doubtful Harry would be free.

If Terry was affected by Ron's statement, then he did not show it. His face was frozen with the smile that had erupted before. "That's okay. I've been enjoying our recent trend of getting the attractive members of our year to come to these, and so long as Ernie comes, I'll be okay." Hannah flashed Terry a glare, which only caused Terry to laugh.

"Great, what time should we come?" Nott asked.

"I'll come around an hour after dark to be ready before curfew. You guys can come about anytime around then I guess." One of the perks of having a key to a classroom was that Ron could be in the room at any time of the day officially. There was a risk of a ghost performing room checks at curfew time. If the ghost found him, the ghost could ask him to leave to his house. To avoid this, Ron generally only went to the room after curfew. It was worth the risk to set up the classroom for parties, just in case more people than expected come.

The four of them parted ways soon afterwards. Ron had no direction he was headed, other than contemplation. An inch grew on the back of his neck; anticipation grew on the back of his hands. The plan; plans; the future and the end; each were circling around his head.

Walls ran by his sides outstretched. His feet beat a rhythm without a tune. Light poured through the windows on the west face. The silence of the windowsills; the silence of his vision; the silence of his own heart, were filling his ears. Walls ran by his sides outstretched.

Where was he headed? Towards his mortality, the sweet release of death. He was no longer a champion of the past, but guarded the precious time he time had left. Time kept clicking; ticking; knocking; running; sobbing; wishing; flowing; taking. Time would never end. Time would end him.

Ron did not feel like returning to Gryffindor. Whenever he entered the house, he needed to smile and talk. It would be as if he was okay. A facade each person participated in. It was a dance of bullshit. Ron was in no mood to pretend. Sometimes life was too distracting. He would lose his perspective, and slowly mold into other people's. At the moment he had reached a moment of self. He may not be happy, but he was true to himself. This was the true way he felt. When he would laugh; when he would tell a story; when he would try to make other people like him, it was never him. At times it felt as if he was running away from himself. He wanted to stay himself, at least until the party.

He wished he knew how to figure it all out. He wished he knew how act with other people and still be true to himself. In his day dreams he was the coolest person in a room. In his day dreams he could stay by Harry's side and laugh at all the awful jokes. Yet each time he tried, it felt as if he was tearing up his insides. Yet each time he tried, he would stay still and silent. He would feel alone, more alone than when he was by himself. He would feel alone, like a stranger at a table of friends. It was all very unwell.

Was he unwell?

Sometimes he would wonder whether there was a physical malady. If he were to go to a doctor, then the doctor would have a cure. His tendency for day dreaming would only be a vitamin deficiency, and his loneliness would be due to a lack of protein in his diet. Yet nothing terrified him more than health, for he knew everything was well. It was just his damned eyes which kept looking at the world wrong. Everything was slanted; everything didn't fit together; everything blurred together in an awful brown; everything kept playing the same fucking song.

Ron left the western tower, where his precognition class had taken place, to lie upon the grounds. A light breeze floated in the spring air. The grass was illuminated, and reflected light to his eyes. A great tree rested outside of the tower. Ron had often come to rest by the tree throughout his years at Hogwarts, long before he took a class in the western tower.

As luck would have it, he was not the only one to come to the tree. Hermione, who had often also rested at the tree, was sitting at the trunk. A small book was held in her hands. A small smile was barely noticeable upon her lips. Ron was tempted to walk away, and not disturb her. But, as if he was being pushed aggressively, he could not turn away. A man possessed, he felt weak.

"Hey Hermin," he greeted.

She slowly looked up from her book. The smile on her face grew in a subtle way. "Hey Ron, what are you up to?" She asked in a curious manner. Her eyes, green, stared at him intently. Without breaking her gaze she moved her book behind her.

Ron always felt exposed by her pupils. There was something unique about Hermione's survey. Nott often described her eyes as containing the devil, was this what he meant by it? The sensation moved slowly up his back. "I just finished precognition, thought I'd enjoy some nature. Feel what it has to offer." The aura of plants gave an intense cushion to feel. Plants only feel life, no other emotion. Whenever Ron was overcome with death and dying, there was no better cure.

It sometimes occurred to Ron that Hermione probably knew how to feel magical auras as well. She was far too smart, and too aware of the different aspects of magic to have not tried it. Her ability was probably not as fine tuned as Ron's, but they may not be a bad thing. Ron was trained in a specific way: to look at the future. Hermione would be looking at everything; she would guide her own hand however she liked. Magic manifests itself in many different ways; maybe Hermione was actually uninterested and never cared about reading auras. He was sure she did, for he talked far too much about them not for her to be curious. At least he hoped so, if not she cared little for the words he spoke.

"Sounds cool," Hermione started "I felt a little nostalgic. It's been a long time since the three of us sat under this tree." Her hands slowly started to move up the trunk. The tree had been a personal place of Ron's, but it had been years since it was a meeting spot for the three of them. Ron still visited the tree often, but this was mostly because of its proximity to the precognition classroom.

Ron smiled. It was nice to think of the times the three of them had spent together. He sat next to Hermione, leaning his back against the tree. "It has been. I can't even remember the last time we were all out here." Hermione's gaze was no longer upon him. She was staring into the sky. He wondered where her thoughts were, if they were as wonder as she or as tragic as his own.

A gust of wind blew through the air. A shiver walked its way up Ron's spine. A silence. A silence.

Hermione's eyes stayed in the sky. "It miss it."

Beat.

"Where have we gone? We're still here at this school, but we act as if our lives have already parted. I'm still here, are you?" Hermione faced Ron. Her eyes, green, stared at him intently.

Ron didn't know how to answer. Hermione's face stayed still; her hair blew in the wind. Had he truly stayed in the same place? He'd been self obsessed for so long. Why the fuck did he care so much about his own physicality? How the hell did that help him? All his time was focused on some dumb mission of self satisfaction. He'd been traveling, every where he could, as alone as he could.

A realization grew, subtle. "I don't know where I am. I haven't known for the longest time. I've been so lost, so fucking lost." He stared at the ground. A need built itself in his head. He needed to touch the aura of the plants. He needed to feel the life assurance he had come outside for. But that would be running away. All his time had been spent running away into his own head.

The two of them shared a moment of silence. Time felt still, as if it were giving the both of them a break. Hermione smiled, her gaze softened. "You know, sometimes I think we all are. I just miss this, us, Harry."

Ron, in turn, smiled back. Before he knew what he was doing, he started to laugh. He laughed, but it was him, not some performance or act of conforming. He laughed at the absurdity of everything around him. He laughed at the absurdity of the emotions he felt. He laughed at the absurdity, that he'd forget something so important about the future.

"You know," he began "I keep thinking about the future as having already happened. It's silly, and I don't know why I do it. Maybe since so much of my life is forward looking. But fuck that. We're never going to have the three of us again, it's true, but I'm damned sure we're still going to have some good times. This isn't over, we aren't over."

Hermione turned her head towards the sky once more. Her eyes, green, stared at the sky. A small chuckle escaped her chest, a release of stress. "You're right," her fingers delicately touched the blades of grass. "Maybe we all look at things the wrong way sometimes."

Maybe.

Beat.

Beat, went Ron's heart.

_My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them –_ Jack Kerouac


	4. Something

Part 4

_Turn into Something_

The darkness always bugged Ron. He would often claim his fear was specific to the corridors, but it was actually universal. The lack of illumination was an itch behind his neck, an itch he could never scratch. Alone, it had something to do with being alone. In the darkness he became ever aware of his loneliness. There was no one joining his journey. There was no one else climbing the mountain with him.

He had prepared the room, shifted the space, and set the stars into the sky. Now all he needed to do was wait. The others would be joining him shortly, or at least he believed they would. He would often become anxious at this time. Failure was ever present before his eyes. Nothing is defined in the future until it becomes the past.

Silence built around him. The emptiness of the astronomy room was apparent. Ron was all that was aware in the room. Each movement he made was amplified. Ambient noise was limited. The only sounds he could hear were from his own body. The thud. And the Beat.

Tired of his idle motions, Ron started to roll a spliff. If the world was starting to bug him, then he should shift his perception of it. Sometimes breaking down was better than fixing. Why did he have to try and preserve himself?

His fingers felt obtuse and rough. He had never been good at rolling. Hermione's natural skill made him feel inadequate at times. The papers fidgeted between his thumbs, and the weed refused to become circular. His attention wasn't in the right place; his eyes were trying to touch the ground. Maybe the aura of the ground was supportive, or was it tired of supporting angst ridden teenagers its entire life, or was it as lifeless as all other dead objects?

With apprehension he licked the papers and put the spliff between his lips. The paper tasted calming. If he could find a better self medication to help with his anxiety, then he'd be surprised. During fifth year, after he had been recommended to start taking anti-depressants, he was sceptical if the pills were right for him. At times he felt out of control of his actions. Sometimes there was noticeable help given, times he outstretched himself in ways he could not before. But that was less common than he would have liked. It was different whenever he got high, it always felt liberating and felt as if he was still himself.

The sky and stars started to radiate to him. The ceiling of the astronomy room was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. The stars and sky felt present. Some how the representation felt intrinsically real, more real than the refracted images from a telescope. Ron had lived with magic his entire life. Magic was ever present in his actions and how he viewed the world. It was rare when magic was still able to inspire awe in him. There needed to be something amazing to affect him deeply. The ceiling was able to affect him deeply. The ceiling was sublime.

He walked towards the centre pedestal that controlled the display. His fingers moved over the control board and pressed a switch. The supernova, his supernova, near Orion's Belt, grew to take up the entire ceiling. Ron's eyes became glued to the display, overtaken by the beauty of the dying star.

Ron laid down upon the ground and lit the spliff resting between his lips. Alone he was overtaken. He could feel the gravity towards it, sucking his heart towards the sky. The great change ever present, the suggestive took from his hands. Colours radiated in a spectrum, greater than he could ever imagine. The horrors of death, shown in a light more beautiful than words could describe. Colours radiated and burst into a spiral; a spiral downward; a spiral upward; a spiral homeward.

For a couple of minutes there was little change. He enjoyed his breaths of smoke, trying to pacify his muscles. A knock. He turned his head towards the doorway. A silhouette stood underneath the arch.

"Jesus Hermione, how do you keep scaring me like that?" Ron joked. He stayed lying on the ground.

Hermione walked out from under the arch in his direction. Her laughter caused by his joke was audible. She sat next to where Ron lay, and started to roll. "You seem to be doing well for yourself. Starting the party a little early? Is everyone else coming soon?" she asked.

Unlike Ron's thick digits, Hermione fingers were smooth and defined. Her eyes were focused on the work of her hands. Ron peered away from the supernova to try and investigate the devils dancing in her cornea. If Nott could see it, eventually Ron was certain he'd be able to notice.

Ron had often pondered whether, when Nott spoke of the devils in eyes, the conversation was supposed to be satirical. Admittedly, Ron was often a bad judge of character. Nott seemed serious and studious whenever he made a comment about the eyes and the devils. There had been times when Nott claimed to be joking about certain things which Ron believed him serious.

"I don't know when they'll be coming. I haven't spoken to any of them since I told them about the party. I was not too precise on a time for them to come, so they'll probably come on their own time," Ron answered. His eyes studied the supernova. Perhaps he'd be able to see the devil there. In something so powerful, powerful enough to rip apart an entire solar system, surely that is where a devil would live. Pure destruction; pure change; pure critique; pure negated creation, are those not where it'd be?

Or maybe Ron was mixing up metaphors. Nott was awfully confusing sometimes, maybe he meant nothing by it instead.

Hermione finished rolling her joint and smiled a deep maroon. She put her hand into Ron's pant pocket, and took out his lighter. "Do we know if Harry will be gracing us with his presence tonight?" The flame flickered in front of her eyes.

Ron rolled onto his side to watch Hermione lighting her joint more intently. She inhaled a deep toke, smoke filled her cheeks. "I don't know that either, unfortunately." He had shared a couple words with Harry in passing, and Harry promised to attend, but Harry gave no more information. Harry followed his own schedule, hopefully there'd be room for the party. At least, Harry would make an appearance. Harry was not known for breaking a promise. There was something about being the unofficial head of Gryffindor that made Harry ascribe to the Gryffindor ideals.

Hermione took the spliff out of her mouth and placed it between Ron's lips. Inhale. Silence. Hermione laid back onto the ground, stretched her limbs. She shuffled herself to be next to Ron, and retook the spliff. The silence continued. The two of them stared intently at the supernova before them. Its elements shifting and breaking. The flow of motion rolling down stream. Resting against a bed of nothingness and space.

Silence.

"Well, why don't you read the future then?" Hermione asked.

Ron turned his head and stared at her. Her eyes, green, stared at him intently. "What do you mean?" he asked neutrally.

The space between them grew slightly, but was bridged as Hermione rose to sit. "I mean, you always talk about your precognition class and we're in your precognition classroom right now. But, with all of that, I don't think I've ever seen you try to read the future." She smiled innocently, perking the right side of the lips up. A playfulness was radiating from her presence, an attempt.

Without having to think about it, Ron agreed with her statement. He had never tried to read the future with her, or at least told her about it. Even with her insistence, he was uneasy with the idea. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he hesitantly suggested.

"Oh come now, don't be a spoil sport. I'm not asking for too much, I'm just curious. If you really don't want to do it, then that's cool." Hermione added.

"No, it's cool," Ron initially replied. His tongue was slowly growing dry. The corneas of his eyes were starting to vibrate. Should he try? What would be found if he started to explore at the moment? He had not started to build intention, the map he was going to receive would be bare. Their would be no guides, no dog eared edges. But maybe he could draw something from this space. He liked to think it was possible harmonise with the magical auras surrounding everything. All he needed to do was reach the proper frequency for him to tune to. First, he needed to extend his hand and start.

Initially he said nothing, but then he started to describe. "Well, within the next couple of minutes the rest of the precognition students will start to walk in. Hannah will come through the door first, followed only a minute later by the Ravenclaws, then Nott and Lavender arriving at the same time. It'll be the whole class, something rarely achieved. We'll all start to drink, you and I will smoke on the wall. Nott will come over, and we'll talk.

"Harry and Enie will arrive together, having come from a HufflePuff party. Terry will start to hang out with the two of them, hitting on either when he can. None of us will know how, but Ernie will make his way to the music and put on some awful Techno. He, Harry, Lavender, Terry, and Hannah will dance to this music for most of the party. The rest of us will watch and talk. Ernie will hit on Hannah, but she won't answer to any of his approaches. We'll complain often about how the music is too loud.

"Near the end of the night, half of the group will be left. You, Harry and I will want to stay and watch the sunrise while the others want to call it a night. Maybe Nott's in the group with us, I am not sure. When it comes time for the sunset, it's just the three or four of us left. We climb to the top of the tower and wait outside. Once the sunrise begins, we talk about how we're going to miss this school after we leave. None of us are particularly comfortable out there; we go back inside once the Sun's completely visible. It's a good night."

Silence. Hermione was intently watching Ron dictate. As he finished, she softened her gaze slightly and lay back. She was obviously high by the sound of her voice "Wow, you are able to predict that much?"

Ron started to laugh slightly. "Of course not, I was just pulling that out of my ass. I'm far too high to even get anything. We'd be lucky if I was able to get emotional readings from either of us, not even the same kind of precognition as reading the future."

Initially Hermione seemed annoyed that Ron had just lied. She moved closer to him and punched him in the arm. Beat. They shared a moment. They shared laughter. Both of them laid down onto their backs.

The time stretched forward. The space between their sides was defined. As if it were a great chasm, one which Ron has no idea how to pass. In truth she lay only an arm stretch away, not just her body but her mind and her desires and her apprehensions and her neuroses were just as present. A great inch grew upon the back of Ron's hand. His body wanted him to outstretched and reach her. If he could connect, then it would cause change. Would the change be better? Problems would not be solved, that would be an unreasonable goal. In ways more problems would be created, but at least they would move past the problems they were stuck in.

Ron turned his head, Hermione was staring at the ceiling. Her eyes, green, were staring intently away from him. The two of them stayed this way, a blanket of stasis covered. "Hermione," Ron started to say "what are you looking for?"

It took a couple of seconds for Hermione to show signs of attention. She turned her head towards his. Her eyes, green, stared intently. "What do you mean?" she asked delicately. An innocence danced around her face, not of contextual ambiguity, but of a desire to clarify. She continued to look; she continued to search.

"What are you trying to find? Like, not right now, but in life. For the longest time I was trying to find truth in the world, or order. But recently I've become sceptical whether truth is actually what I desire." Ron paused for a second to organise his thoughts. "I desire something. All of my actions are to find it. It's not physical, or else I'd focus exclusively on satisfying my needs. It's not emotional, cause the more I seem to look, the sadder I seem to get. And, well I don't know. I legitimately, really don't know. Maybe I'm not making sense, or maybe I'm the only one who searches this way. I don't know."

"I'm kind of high right now," Ron joked.

Hermione smiled, slightly. The devils in her eyes danced in rows. They took off their clothes. Red bled into the blue dripping down to the dreams, the vivid dreams only devils can dream. "I can't say I really know either. I'm stuck searching too, I could accept truth as a goal, maybe. Either way, I would say this: I love the journey. I love looking into things; I love understanding things; I love to learn. If I never find some great truth at the end of the tunnel, I don't think I will mind. If I don't become a better person, I don't think I'll care much either.

"When I leaver here, this school, my greatest fear is to lose that passion. I want to become a professor at a university, but, to be honest I don't care much for the magic. When I was younger, before I even knew about magic, I still loved it as much as I do now," the smile deepened as the nostalgia became present in her mind. "The day I discouvered I was a wizard, I couldn't wait to learn everything there is from magic. And, if I ever run out of things to learn of magic, then I'll leave it behind."

"Or maybe not, I'm kind of a little high too," she joked back. Beat. Silence. "Do you think the others will be joining us soon?"

Ron sat up from his position on the ground and crossed his legs. He reached into his robe; his fingers searched through the pockets till he found his cigarettes. With a smile he put one between his lips. He turned his body, so that he was facing her. Her eyes, red, blue and green, stared intently at him. His eyes, stared intently back. With a single motion he struck a match and lit the tip of his cigarette. Beat.

After a drag, Ron began "I don't know, I'm sure they'll come soon. I doubt sometimes whether what I'm looking for is real or attainable. But who knows? Maybe if I keep on searching I'll find what I'm looking for. And when I do, maybe it'll change how I see things. Maybe I'll turn into something, something I like. That would be nice."

Smoke filled the space between the two of them.

Beat.

_Everything has been figured out, except how to live. -_Jean-Paul Sartre

0000

**End of Story 1**

Author's Notes:

I would like to thank you for reading. I hope you liked it or took something from it.


	5. Snakes

_Author's Notes:_

_I though I had finished this story, but when I was rereading chapter 2, I came across this:_

_"Ron was obsessed with reading the magic around his hands, to be, to be, to be; Nott was obsessed with the reading of the purely absurd, the dancing epilepsy of the meaningless. If they were to converge, maybe they would meet at a state, or maybe they would divulge into a form of morphine and love."_

_I realised there was more to be discussed and to be explored. And, if successful, perhaps it will create this form._

_The chapter is a little unusual and unclear. It may be better understood as a description or portrait; it's describes more than just a room. I also try to describe what Nott believes the absurd to be, and as it is the absurd, there is no clear sense to certain parts. Be careful though, even if it does not have a clear sense, every part has some meaning._

**Story 2**

Part 1: Snakes

Theodore Nott sat, legs crossed, exploring the aura of Slytherin. The walls extended to his right were made of a blue stone, exposed except for the green reflections lightly covering certain details. A shallow puddle filled the left corner; the light turned green in its refraction and its reflection. The motion of the water danced upon the surfaces; light painted its colour. Nott's face was covered in the dynamic motion of the waves filling the air around him. A moist pressured filled the air and he drank it in with each breath. He rested there, in the dark, his eyes exploring the unseen.

Slytherin, unlike the other three houses, did not have a grand common room. Instead a series of small rooms connected the different dormitories, some differing drastically in aesthetics from one another. The room Nott found himself in was unfinished and intimate; disconnected from most of the network, it rested deep in the catacombs. There were no direct routes requiring the passage the room afforded; it was an excess of the system growing. As a tumor tightly sucking onto the other cells, it was rough and unsightly. Little reasons were given by its walls; an existence without meaning, stagnant and indifferent.

The room was unfinished and bare. There were no covers on the walls; cracks grew across the surfaces over the years. Water, free from the pipes carrying it, dripped through the cracks and congregated into pools. Bacteria used the baths of the free water to bathe and wash. Mold grew on all which was sustained within the moist atmosphere. The floor was cold concrete, unheated and resting bare above the foundation. No high ceilings extended into the sky; the top of the room hung to an uncomfortable intimacy. A person's head brushed the surface and was acquainted with the height limit.

Nott sat in a brown bare chair made out of an old wood he was unfamiliar with. He had removed the chair from one of the more central rooms of the house; before it was a grand example of craftsmanship, but here is was damaged and warped. The erect stature of the chair was now bent; polish turned into a sick smug taste.

The room was covered in darkness; the only illumination came from the room resting on the other end of the corridor. Function seemed idle; reasons for being begged questions and ignored answers. Stairs grew upwards on Nott's right, and to his left a corridor ran from the room. The room was stuck in passage. In a specific moment of time it rested between two different goals, each with an individual and clear example. Who would design such a room? It was an absurd anomaly within the intricate details of the school, left to rot and decay alone.

Nott loved it.

He had found a home within the hollow walls of the prisonless prison. Each contradictory fascination he had was spawned, with help of the walls hugging his body. At a time he had needed, it stumbled upon him. Without any agency of his self it had come to him. There had been no agency on the room's part either, for it is a room and that would be absurd. But then on whose agency was the room discouvered? An equally absurd reality would be the case without any agency. Nott, a l'estranger, bathed in it.

It had been here, alone, Nott had discouvered the ability to read magical auras. Without a guide or map, he had explored anarchically throughout the different waves. Before he knew the implications, functions, or reasons, he knew about the feelings, the experiences, the touches. What a beautiful painting he could pretend? What a beautiful painting he could pretend? Before he knew the sense, he knew how to explore through the senses.

In his fourth year, Nott sat for weeks here. The indexical placement at the time, of all of the possibilities, was indicating specific instance similar but not identical to then. It was not his wish to escape the others, for he was unhappy by himself. It was only truer of his unhappiness to manifest stronger with the others. He was an other, by virtue of his hands and his feet, but he did not love them the way. It made little sense to him, he knew his lies and how he choked on them. A wish, his wish had been to avoid reasons, to break the sentences. Unlikely, grand. He was free from the devils here, here, here, here,

The others also held the devils behind their eyes, or rather they failed to present the devils whenever he looked. It was an understandable maliciousness, as devils happen to obtain by definition, but it grew as an ache would behind Nott's own eyes. The desire built, without a chance of escape for all failed. They all failed. Except one, but she was not his to see. He knew it, or at least he thought. And he knew he was wrong! How else could he be? For there are no such things, and eyes are only eyes. Just as his dreams are only dreams and his fucks are only fucks.

His focus had always avoided or ignored the function of the institution and it was no different here. His gaze became focused on his self actualization. The tones he could hear, here, were enough to deafen in their beauty. Some nights he would sit and cry at the notes the auras would reach without making a sound or affecting anything. A shift painted a stroke; many strokes made up the events of his realization and exploration. It was pleasant; it was comfort; it was ecstasy; it was empty.

His fingers would curl around what he believed the auras to be true as. While his brain rejected the absolute true or false, in his mind at these moments of feeling there could be nothing else. Yet, even with this kind of an acceptance, it still exploded into a sublime contradiction. For his fingers felt the unbelievable roughness of the rock, but his skin would know only the undeniable softness produced by such a brush. It made sense to him at the time, but what did it actually mean? Was than an actual? He sometimes felt of it as a sober hallucination. A hallucination brought on by his strong desires. The desires of eyes built up within him.

Later in life he would be brought to drugs to try and replicate this feeling. He knew this fact now, and then, and before, and forever. It did not stop his wish to continue. It did not change the desire. For now was here and never then. And here was this chair, in the god forsaken room in the bottom of Slytherin. And here was a boy, lost by himself and found by no one. And here was the king of his own domain: the emotions he felt. And here was the wide eyed begger demanding another piece. And here was Theodore Nott, who was alone.

In all of Slytherin, water flows. There is a constant stream passing behind the stone of the walls. With attentive ears, the pipes become audible. The sound traps the silence expected within the empty. No matter how void, in Slytherin there is a crowd of bacteria swimming past screaming; crying; shrieking; screaming. The pipes are snakes crawling behind the surface; the pipes are the veins of blood hanging behind the cheeks of a face. It is there; it applies pressure; it hisses in the night as well as the day. The rotten hopes are carried through singing songs of despair barely. Shifts, shifts grow and travel. An experience, magical in nature, Nott could not describe with words. Sublime.

Starts with the walls; all of how Nott was, and became started with the walls. Here, with his legs crossed, he even danced now. Take me away streams! Take me away and tell me things! Do not worry about the terrible truths you keep within your dreams! Take me away in those wonderfully beautiful horribly evil sins!

Yet, he knew now how his presence changed things. Over time his quality started to become in the place. It was known now, the room, no longer forgotten and alone. Friends were grown through the branches of the walls, the classes made sense and he now tried. He understood now, in a sense, the purpose of the school. The wonder of learning, a learning he required the guidance of someone with more knowledge. Before, all he needed was the anarchy apart from his fingers, but to learn this, and to guide it to the future needed more.

And there were the friends; those others he let come close. Perhaps he could become accustomed to knowing them, reading their traces and projections. The fuck that built inside could be extended and helped, or without. But he would need the sentences. He could no longer break, break, break, break,

The girl with the curling hair and her wonderful eyes distracted his hands. There were devils there; terrible devils danced around the back of her eyes. No longer could he be broken and consumed by the other forces and experiences. Instead his mind's eye was looking for her curls. The nose on his face would twitch and bug upon the thoughts he had of her smell and smarts. An odor and order, too much to contain and too much to experience, consumed his senses despite their absence. With such distracting physical reactions how could he feel the movement of the walls?

And even then, how could he catch up with her? She was beyond and prepared. He had been distracted by this chair. The fucking chair! He could not reach her and her ivory pedestal. She had climbed for years while he was here; here and trapped by his own indexical mistakes. The streams could not carry him to this goal; it was a goal he had missed. There was no forward.

Change was brought upon, not by the mold or by the crying bacteria but by his own accord. How he changed things, and how things were changed by him. His affection grew outwards to touch the different corners and holes of the room. Now, no longer and indifferent, the room had a purpose. It had a purpose for him. There was no longer an absurd collection of pieces connected by the walls, instead there was a singular: his past here. He had affected the walls. He loved the walls. There was no longer an aura of indifference for his personal aura filled the spaces within the room. An abundance of feelings and hopes grew from his fingers. The space was changed now by his desires and desires. The space was changed by how he had changed into a person who feels and those that felt him.

The others grew faces and he understood their claims. He had feared the others for a time, since he had known of the others. Now he had friends who had grown from the others. Their own branches matched the braches sketched into the wall as cracks. The branches of the others and friends contained such similar details as the bacteria filling the cracks. Those who flourished too had fears and hopes; emotions and known; cries and cries. Without fail and growth they would consume and create in a process against entropy. An accumulation was sown into the soil as order of thoughts brought life as the walls brought Nott to this seat.

But they were not him, nor were the walls. The walls were always by themselves. He was not always. For a time, for now, for here, he was not always. How the words affected him. The realization. He had trapped, trapped in the need against the sentences. When he left the room, he would change. Change into things. Turn into Something. He will be Nott alone, Nott alone, Nott alone, I'm not alone, but I am not, Nott alone, Nott alone.


	6. Spaces

_**Author's Notes: **__This chapter deals with many elements of the story introduced in the second chapter. I may suggest rereading the chapter, or referring back to the chapter, if there are plot details you find confusing. Whenever "the room" is mentioned, it is a reference to the room in the fifth chapter (or to Nott, depending on how literal or metaphoric you wish to take that chapter). _

_ The chapter was a labour of love, as I wanted to play with many different stylistic choices. I purposely true to avoid directly saying certain things, and directly declare others. It may have been a little too ambitious of a chapter, but hopefully it makes some sense. _

_ There will be one more part to Story 2, and I will hopefully have it up soon. _

**Story 2**

Part 2: Spaces

Theodore Nott was awoken by a muted click. His bed, stationary, rumbled and plied as his muscles became accustomed once more to wakefulness. The abrasive fashion he woke was common; his eyes were used to the force brought upon them by light.

His thoughts floated between the waves and his tongue was rough. The dreams, of which he had been released, were diluting into the opaque clouds of the past. In a vain attempt, he wished to reconstruct and re-experience the indefinite ways he had just felt. But the dreams were gone. He could no longer touch them; his reach could not extend. A slow sadness built between his lips; a eulogy for what had passed sang within his breaths. Inhale.

A new dream grew from his desire to recapture the old. The curls grew around his face. He had not realized the way he slept between them. Different strands painted the crevices of his face a deep red; streams of blood brushed his skin. In the same way the blood blushed her face. And the breaths, the breaths, the breaths upon his chin. Kisses of air travelled over the short distance. Each received and each processed, and each loved.

But with another click Nott was brought back. Each missed.

He laid on his own. The sculptures and thoughts hung upon the wall; appreciation called for, for how else to experience? How else to exist without experience? Each dreamed. His material given; a constitution he could not escape. The desire to leave would only misunderstand how it was he lived; he was a man alive of singular: body and mind. Placed as he was, surrounded by the conscious trappings in the magical webs, there was more to reach. He loved the ones dead; who grew into nothing and rested within the aura of the Slytherin.

Despite his initial complacency and stature, for a brief moment he broke down. The rest, and the rest of it all, was irrelevant for those thoughts. His emotions were overwhelmed; he ignored the crawls digging down his cheek and digging down into where he hurt. Such salt was life, experienced through unshared tears. He hated the metaphorical, now! Stop it! He did not want some kind of poetic position! He only wanted the curls, and the cries to escape. Each never happened!

The room expanded around him as he became conscious and started to escape his mind. A dim green light was painted in a line across the walls. Beds were laid next to one another, each lacking a distinct identity. The ornate and superfluous were found in excess; the room was proper and traditional: expect nothing less of the Slytherin seventh year dorm.

Nott lay in a corner. The urge to search for the curls was slowly dissipating. He knew how untenable it was. She was not. How fitting to wake each morning within such a silly room. Each hoped and lost. Such a glorious room, rested within the bowels of the cellar. Such great prestige to be found here! It was all absurd. So many of Nott's fellow classmates were obsessed with the honour and position of Slytherin, yet did they not realize it rested next to the pipes carrying shit? Did they not realize how very arbitrary and pointless it all was?

Another click drew Nott's attention. The fucking click haunting him!

Turning eyes, Nott found the source. On the other side of the room sat Draco Malfoy on a bed. A hash pipe rested jovially between his lips. The lighter, origin, was held between Malfoy's fingers.

Malfoy's eyes turned, in their own part, and met Nott's projection. In a penance perhaps, or perhaps misunderstood, Malfoy extended a silent greeting. Through the smoke, Malfoy flashed Nott a small smile and lifted one of his hands slowly. Initially Nott stared at the movement, not within the physical, but the ways Malfoy's acclamation caused a wave to build around. The dead and lost emotions parted ways; the channel broke down. Aura's were overcome with the force of Malfoy's own projection, if it were another time Nott would have wondered if it was intended. A secret message through the untenable, for surely Nott was only seeing through those means.

Nott waved back with a half thought. Each performed.

"Morning sunshine," Malfoy jokingly greeted from across the room. Malfoy sat erect on his chair; a book rested in his lap. The light around Malfoy's bed was dim and soft, his bright blonde hair lay in sharp contrast with the area around him.

A dim ringing built in Nott's ears, as if the vibrations from the auras he touched were reverberating within his brain. It felt as if he was disturbed, physically. An intuition perhaps grew through the senses; he was mistaking as empirical what was only occurring by his body. It all seemed so distant from him: his own body was metres away from the tips of his fingers. He remembered all of the yarns Ron would repeat cyclically on the subject of his being. Of the body and of life, Ron would often muse about. It was interesting and of note, but Nott was not interested to quite the extent of Ron. He was curious on why he should think it would make sense? Ron was curious of meaning; Nott was curious of the question of meaning.

Why be?

For surely he was!

Raised from the complacency, Nott moved towards Malfoy. His own jet black hair faded into the shades; the camouflage hid his intentions, his fears, and those thoughts dying as each cell of his brain eventually ceased to be. Each passed.

Malfoy watched Nott's movements with attentive eyes. Diluted, his pupils hung within the red fire Malfoy lived in throughout his life. Such sad, muted notes, would escape his mouth: always flat. Those brief moments Nott observed but did not try to understand, instead he wondered about why he would wish to order and explain. Could he not stay content with the moments as they presented? Did he desire an absurd so often? With a flash of a smile and a glare from his glowing head, Malfoy handed Nott his pipe.

"Few people have been allowed to smoke Wollstonecraft," Malfoy slurred indicating the small, cracked pipe Nott now held. Nott, nodded his head, and took a hit. "Only those who are an equal can touch their lips; it is a shame there is not more of us." Malfoy smiled, slow.

In such a place, was it not bizarre to consume and consummate such forbidden acts. An anxiety, but one of joy, started to muddle Nott's stomach. The soft light blanketed the details and he decided on a simple so what? Each mused and abandoned. They were in the dorm, so hidden from the rest of the world. Was it not the point of all of the mazes and halls with no obvious trail to cut off where they were, from the 'other'? Here, the House had tried to place in solitude, why else lay beside the shit? They were able to hide in the shit and overcome it. Slytherin was the home of cleverness, their identity procured being beyond. But these were all lies essentially. There was no Slytherin: only a collection of rooms. What those who made, made themselves. It was all contingent and dependant.

If there was truth to it, then it was only true in the magical hole of the dorm. Unlike every other room in the entire school, which were filled with magical sensors and extensions, the dorm was empty. For most it felt the same; the only way to tell was to talk with the aura. Thankfully it was a conversation he was particularly good at. When he had told Malfoy about the hole, it was liberating. Malfoy smoked here now, and was willing to laugh alone. Why he wouldn't otherwise, Nott knew the reasons and felt sorry about such self constraints.

For Malfoy, those conversations and creations of house had more of a truth. He lived his life, although perhaps he was starting to reject his position, within the discourse. The words, and the hole in the sensors here, were a message for him; he was as much a creation as the discourse was his own. It meant reality to him; maybe it was the reason he seemed uncomfortable and distant since his third year. Did he realize it was all hardly necessary. He could have been elsewise? Malfoy was the head of the house, Nott did not knew not how Malfoy could lift himself to such a position and feel meaning. Nott only knew how to break: his hopes, confidence and sentences sentences sentences

"I appreciate the honour," Nott responded. He often wondered whether Malfoy really believed such talks of superiority. It would be foreign to Nott, had he not once believed in it as well.

When he was younger he had no reason to question the sentiments. It was built around him as concretely as all necessary abstractions. Then, he learned of the crimes of those around him. The deaths committed by their hands; how in their whispers were hidden horrible things. How they dragged down his whole being! Such horrible actions committed for such horrible sentiments. It felt awful, nearly painful. How could he live with such knowledge? How could he present himself, while knowing the stains were on his character. And when he denied it, it felt as if it was all a charade. Each hidden.

With the knowledge, still, he believed he was beyond it. Their mistakes were not his. He was over and beyond such faults. He understood the world. He knew who was what and what was those who were. The devils may escape, but he did not need to see the devils to know all. But then he fucked up; done what he could not take back: nothing. It was a realization Oh, When he did! When the water was swallowed past a point where he would never redo, where he would never fix, where he would never be at peace with himself. It was there, trapped in the absurdity of his whole life: the assumption of superiority was ripped into shreds as he sat lost.

Even his room where he had explored so much of life, on the assumption he could gain all he needed, left the taste of a sour burn in the back of his mouth. He was cut off from the others. Had he been willing to share in the time of others, perhaps he could wake in the curls, at least once. Each needed, beyond reason. But he was never going to get those days back. He was stuck in his own rut, hating the taste.

With a few glares, Nott noticed Malfoy's analysis of his silence. Malfoy was never one for a wasted moment or ignorance, in a sort of paradoxical way. "You look like shit man," Malfoy observed without any noticeable judgement hiding behind his words. "Were you out last night?"

"Yeah, a bunch of the precognition kids had a party in the tower," Nott mentioned. The pipe, still in his fingers, now felt a little irrelevant in the shift of attention. He took another hit. With a candid earnest, Nott briefly wondered to the extent he should continue. Malfoy had looked away; Nott did not know what the body language was trying to convey. "It was a little bit more happening then us precogs generally enjoy."

The focus of Malfoy was ostensibly ironic. His aura came off as simple and empty; Nott only touched it with the delicate calloused fingers his experience allowed. Yet, there seemed to be a conflagration, an innocent catalyst to his pondering. His words hinted as he spoke: "Weasley's the one who hosts those parties does he not? Was Harry there?"

Nott stared at Malfoy for a moment, trying to dissect the words. For most it would only be the curious manifestation, but Nott knew. The evidence, exclusive to him, had built around into a thesis for some time, but at this moment it rang. Harry's bed had been beside his for those few brief weeks. It was inference mostly, and always innocent, but the Hyacinth had grown and attached. Was Malfoy wondering of it? Did it hang before him in the way Nott's faults were suspended?

It had been a day worthy of pride when Malfoy had accepted the self he had buried beneath his flesh. His uvula for so many years had gagged with the prospect, but it had led to a shift. Nott had seen the hands and grips and supports within those first few weeks so long ago. It was a culmination when Nott was able to convince Malfoy to let go of the blonde he'd been holding onto for those four years and accept it. In the blonde Malfoy could keep it up; it was in the blonde the lie settled for the time. His hair glowed now, such contrast with hers.

"Harry was there," Nott responded.

"Cool," Malfoy expressed with an unreadable tone. His face, cool, stood stoic facing the empty seats before him. Malfoy wondered of singles. Nott wanted to dig deeper within his mind, but Malfoy had made communion with reservation. It was not a morose reservation Nott would often find himself in, but a calculated character.

Nott remembered when the two of them had entered Slytherin for the first time. The head of the house had talked on length about the rules of the house: the quivering words commanding a respect Nott had not been willing to give. Such excessive appeals to a unity of person were the messages brought forward. Slytherin, the Slytherin, followed the rules as staunchly as the Gryffindor. To be a Slytherin then was to follow the rules in such a way. If these were ever broken, then their identity would crumble from the group setting they were participating in. To be a Slytherin, one needed to feel it and one needed to test it. It was devoid of a reason; to fight for Slytherin and to be tested on the ideals were the way a Slytherin was. Now, in reflection, Nott felt it seemed an awfully fascist notion to be presenting.

At the time, the words did not matter to Nott. He felt alone in the crowd. Never had he before been surrounded by such peers. Yet, he felt ambivalent instead of interested. Why would it matter to him the others? He was Slytherin, his family had been Slytherin, why was he to care? The others were only a distraction; everything was only a distraction.

A few weeks later it became apparent what the head of the house had truly meant. In private, separate from the public sphere, the real message was given for what it meant to be a Slytherin: successful. A Slytherin was successful; to be successful involved being a successful Slytherin, but not exclusively. One needed to follow all of the rules, unless they were successful in breaking the rules. If one was caught, then they would not be successful and would punished sincerely.

It was a game played. The best player of this game was Malfoy. For the first couple of weeks he'd had his hands full, but then they let go of each other. Malfoy betrayed there, Nott wondered if he ever forgave himself. A successful boy, Malfoy was not over any sort of action, so long as he could find success in it. The manipulation played between the first years was ever present and severe. To escape was to cut oneself off from the rest of the pack, it was what Nott chose to do. Instead he sat in his room, oh glorious room! A cage from the cage; the souring of time, why did had he needed to muddle it? Why had Nott never left its unreasonable walls?

Unreal house! Why had it pitted them all against each other? The pain was beneath every action chosen within those first couple of years. To blame the individuals felt wrong now, they had been swept up in the sophistry. Malfoy with his sharp words and the blood he caused others to bleed from the cuts, seemed possessed. They all wished for happiness and stature, and this was the way they were told in paradoxical words.

Even in his room, Nott found a need to be taken within the waves. To be moved by that which he could not see, that which he could not feel, but that which each action he did was affected, he felt ever strange. Such desires and ideals lead to such failures. When he had made the curls cry, he changed. Thank God he was able to break free of himself in those moments! Away from the House and the pipes around it; away from the rules and the social; away from the emotions; away from the reason: he only felt like falling. It saved him, but had hurt so. They all, those young Slytherins, needed to escape before they drowned in the shit that surrounded them. They were only kids. But why at the cost of what he wished? Why did it have to hurt so fucking much! Why did he need to see the tears?

Thankfully there was a couple of the Slytherins who had also saved themselves from the shit. Nott liked to think, by helping Malfoy accept himself -the self Malfoy had always tried to hide- he'd been able to help save Malfoy. Yet, Malfoy stilled worried him some of the time. Words espousing superiority still came from his mouth and he had still conformed to those expectations posed on him. Such a sad night, those two nights prior, for Nott had thought Malfoy had been able to step past the lie, but there he was at sunrise lying once more.

Malfoy, as head of house, had tried to cut down on the rhetoric, and Nott was thankful for those intentions. At least, hopefully, the first years were not experiencing the same they had done. In the past couple of years there was less of a strict Slytherin identity. Nott believed Malfoy felt bad about those he hurt, and how he had turned all of their year against one another. It may have only been subtle, but the harsh reality of all of their relationships and friendships seemed tragic. Had the other houses had it this bad? Did other Slytherin years have it this bad? Was the fault really on Malfoy, who was just brilliant at stirring their shit. Such a tragic skill to be a master of!

It felt all too absurd. Nott let out a chuckle. His mind was starting to feel muddled; the weed played with his perceptions. Each laughed and forgotten.

Malfoy, with inquisitive eyes, stared at Nott. It must have been strange to see Nott laugh; perhaps this was a fault. "It's good shit isn't it?" Malfoy said commenting on what they were smoking.

Misguided, Nott let out another laugh under his breath. His physical reactions felt separate from him; the aura around him vibrated. The awkwardness of his musings crawled out his pores and jumped into the magical resonance. "Yeah man," Nott concurred passing Malfoy back the pipe. "Fuck yeah, who'd you get it from?"

With accepting hand Malfoy received the pipe. "This may surprise you, but from Zach, that HufflePuff guy," Malfoy said with a devious tone. "After the game yesterday he came up to me hoping to apologize for crashing my party two nights ago. As a sign of sincerity, he gave me 2g of this."

Nott would have responded immediately but his attention was elsewhere. He had started to feel the auras around the two of them. With delicate fingers he'd searched through the minute details spread around the room. When he was high, there was nothing he preferred to do. Under Blaise's bed there was the well hidden fear of rejection. He must have been trying to bury it into his pillow. Such anxiety thrown downwards in a direct fashion hanging on the floor mixed with the dust. No other student in the school would have been able to feel it, but Nott could. He could feel the tiniest of intentions, for he'd spent the time in his room knowing and feeling all he could.

It felt as if it were a gift at times; a way to validate some form of superiority over the other apparitions. The rosy cheeks he could dig into were vaster; the nature of the dimples were only aware to him. Underneath it all there was nothing to find. He may be able to dig deeper than others, but the pool was already shallow. There was no difference between Blaise's deep anguish from the steady sound of the bacteria passing through the pipes. Most would have wanted; begged; dreamed it was not the case. Spirits would be created to force a distinction: things would be forcefully categorized and assigned meaning. But there was no meaning here, hardly meaning at all.

After a moment or two, Nott realised Malfoy had spoken and quickly tried to focus his attention back to the present at hand. "That's funny, who would have thought the guy could feel bad about acting like that?" Nott asked.

Malfoy laughed at the comment. "Who knows, maybe he has a conscience hidden beneath the shit. I doubt it, but at least he has some good fucking bud."

The internal politics of the Quiditch league was foreign to Nott. Such rivalry with such sour words brought together in a deep respectful admiration. It felt awfully paradoxical to him. That the two great rivals in the school could have such a well known hate, while he had seen the hands: clasped tight. Deny! Deny! It was all he believed they did, but maybe there was more to it. He admitted his faults, and how limited he was able to grasp their intentions. Those moments were brief and fleeting; is he only projecting? But then, Nott had been able to make Malfoy admit the part of him he'd been denying his whole life. The part his blood did not anticipate; the part that had forced Malfoy to break down and cry. Such absurdity built the human character.

And yet such courage. Malfoy could have denied it. But now, although generally through whispers and half formed intentions, he allowed it. What about two nights ago? Was Malfoy trying to perform? Was he sending Harry a message? Why did they deny themselves? He was sure they never wanted to return: their relations were still sour and rough. They'd fought each other for so long; the scars ran deep and were filled with a deep seeded hate. Did they need to sow those seeds by bringing back those times? It all hardly made sense to Nott now.

He'd always imagined himself as knowing every element of the story, but truly he only knew a very limited amount. It was a fault he always had, no matter the situation. He was gifted at reading the magical auras of people and places, but it always had the same flaw: he could only read the auras in his own perspective. He was a subjective experiencer of the auras, and there was no way to escape this. Reading auras was not scientific; the art of reading seemed almost diametrically opposed to the scientific method. All the knowledge he ever gained from reading auras, was knowledge about himself and not about the world. It was knowledge of how he saw the world, and how he liked to interpret his own thoughts.

It frustrated him. He had not woken up in the curls: it frustrated him. It tore him! It ripped within him! He had not woken up in the curls! The talons dug into his back. The sting! The sting! The sting! He felt like screaming. Each driven mad.

"You okay man?" Malfoy asked. His face looked concerned.

The space between them was filled with Nott's anxiety. Nott doubted Malfoy was reading his aura, but it had stretched and grew around him. He'd been filled by these thoughts and passions. It was overwhelming. If he could express it with words; if he could neutralize the chemicals in his brain; if he felt less absurd, then he could deal with it. Why did he live his life sick? Each moment felt uneasy, unsatisfied, drunk and as if he were about to vomit.

"I'm okay," Nott said monotone.

Malfoy put his hand gently on Nott's shoulder. "You're a weird one Nott." He took another hit from his pipe. "You think too much," he observed in an joking manner. The lips parted and smoke crawled out. Lines wrote in the air different patterns and waves. Dissipating, it made itself known for the second, before disappearing into the vast gas of the air.

Chuckling a little to himself, Nott nodded his head. "Yeah man, maybe I do sometimes, maybe I do." He felt the aura over his right hand. It stung.

Malfoy turned his face towards the ceiling. His hair glowed through the smoke. "Hermione," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Hermione, she always thinks too much. Or at least, it always seems that way. Was she at that party you were at last night?" Malfoy asked, with his tone unreadable.

Nott was silent for a second, as he tried to understand why Malfoy would have randomly brought her up. "Yeah, she was," he mentioned, trying to tread lightly. Malfoy and Hermione were hardly on friendly terms.

Malfoy started to play with his hands. He rubbed his thumb harshly on the palm of his left hand. He seemed high. "I always sort of feel, you know, as if I've been a little mean to her. You know, since you and I've been getting closer, I feel as if I'm starting to understand her more. I've been awfully harsh, but she's really just like you, kinda. Now that we're about to leave here, I've been thinking a lot about Hogwarts. All these years, I've raged war on those Gryffindors, but I wonder if I could have nicer. If I could have been nicer to her."

Over the years, Malfoy, as an influential member of Slytherin before becoming the head of the house, lessened the competition between Slytherins. The first years were not asked, to the same extent, to compete with one another. Despite this, Malfoy shifted the focus onto the other three houses. The point of being a Slytherin was no longer to be individually successful, but rather for the whole house to be successful.

Nott always believed this was a more personal vendetta than Malfoy ever allowed. Malfoy had successfully conned the house onto his side, and now he wanted to broaden his focus. He had been the best player of the political game in the house, and now he wished to compete in across the whole school. Malfoy positioned himself as a makeshift general and schemer. Half of the actions taken, especially within their year, were originally thought up by Malfoy. His head was filled with nooks and small actions of hate. Nott wondered how it must feel to live in a head so quick to plan and so quick to hurt. It must hurt him, surely, to a certain extent. If it didn't hurt him, then how would he know it would possibly hurt others.

The two of them were once more engulfed with a lull. Their eyes, dilated, stared outwards towards the beds lining the walls. The dim light emphasized little detail and softened the harsh designs which filled the room. Nott's chest felt a pressure pushed towards his lungs; he desired to push back against it, but had no means of doing so. He was too aware of the faults of his body; he was too aware of the faults of their minds.

Nott's wondered, his tongue tracing the inside of his mouth to distract from the pain of his chest, to the extent Malfoy's disdain for the other houses still simmered on a personal level. Malfoy had been so cunning, and so successful in twisting the people around him. He'd changed the demeanour and sentiment often shared in hushed voices, yet was never the top of the year. Every few semesters he held strong, sometimes he'd gain the top of the house, but never for the whole year. Hermione had stolen it from him, her and the Ravenclaws with a dull face.

It must have bugged him. Nott couldn't possibly conceive how it would not have. Maybe it was the motivating factor to sick Slytherin on this one girl; the reason Malfoy would whisper venom into Pansy's pungent ears. It was cruel and unnecessary to focus on one person, and do what they did to her. The calculated attacks, organized and executed because of Malfoy's vain grudge. It angered Nott, when he though about what they did to the curls. Nott always stayed far away -within his awful absurd room.

It was nice to hear Malfoy express some sort of remorse. But why now? What was the reason to at this instance mention her name? Nott had never quite forgiven Malfoy for the teasing, but it was never expressed by him. Maybe Malfoy had read Nott's aura? Could it be that Malfoy had a precognition that it could ruin their friendship? There was no way to be sure, or sure such a precognition would be true. It may have been just a calculated guess, deduced from the time Nott spent with Ron. He did not know.

"You probably could have been," Nott added. He tried to find the proper words for the situation. The context of the conversation felt distant from him, despite his participation. What did Malfoy want to be said?

"Look," Malfoy began, "I'm sorry about two nights ago. I must have seemed like such a dick, making out with Daphne like that after all of our conversations. I don't know what came over me. And I've been thinking about it, asking questions why? Why did I do that? Then I started to think about Harry again, and it's been weird. Like I've been reevaluating my whole time here."

Malfoy looked physically shaken. His face was vulnerable; he made no intention of masking how he felt. The thumb rubbing his palm was pushing more pressure upon it. Perhaps Malfoy had been smoking to escape something, and had accidentally brought it to fruition.

Nott, wondering if Malfoy was reaching out for support, put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "You shouldn't worry about it man, people make mistakes. Don't be too hard on yourself; getting lost in the past doesn't help anything." Nott was momentarily brought back into his room, consumed and consecrated. Yet trapped, still trapped; still trapped. Each alone.

"I know what you're saying man, but I'm sick of lying to myself. Sick of throwing myself the wrong way. I'm tired of being who I am." Malfoy confessed, choking every few syllables.

Malfoy needed to leave Hogwarts. He had changed. But within each space he was reminded of his bullying, and reminded of his betrayals. How he had sought unnecessary revenge. How he had told Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise to attack Harry; how he was to blame for it all. It must have been unbearable.

Nott sympathized, he needed to escape his room, and escape the curls.

Maybe, and Nott felt strange thinking this, Malfoy's making face with Daphne had been a sublimation. Had he wanted to do otherwise. Were those kisses not for her, but for him? And was it wrong, not because he continued to support the lie eternally drowning himself in, but because of his reaction when faced with the most horrible elements of it. Was it because of Pansy and Harry. The tool and the desire, making a show before him. Of all the people, the two of them performed their theatre, causing Malfoy to fall back into his old role. The role he hated to play; the role he and Nott had tried so long to rid himself of.

In a sombre tone, Nott tried to console Malfoy a little. "Man, don't worry about it," Nott began, trying to think of the best thing to say. "You can't just expect yourself to change over night. Especially not while we're still here in Hogwarts. You're programed to think and act how you did, not only by your brain but by everything around you." Nott started to trip over his words: if he continued he doubted his words would contain any sense.

Malfoy, who appeared to understand Nott's words, nodded his head slightly. "I know what you're saying man. It felt like the natural thing to do, even though it wasn't" He shook his head, "if that makes any sense." He breathed deeply. "It's conflicting man, I want to leave here, to experience new things. I think I need a change of context. But, I like it here, I really do. Shit, I don't know."

The aura around Malfoy's hands had softened. His eyes were less intense, and he seemed as if he was brought back from an edge. Perhaps anxiety; perhaps depression; the limit or place Malfoy had thrown himself next to was disappearing. The calculated and precise; the always on guard and masked; the cunning Malfoy slowly returned. He'd travelled half of the way to hysteria, but had calmed his nerves. Nott could not be sure of the situation, he was a little high himself, as was Malfoy.

The tension loosened between the two of them as Nott started to say "Neither do I man, neither do I. I feel as if there's still so much I could do here, but I couldn't name anything. I think I'm just used to relying on routine." He'd placed too many of his thoughts in the room; they had fermented and tasted bitter now. But how had he only escaped within the past few years? It was all bitter, maybe he was bitter; was life bitter?

"Hermione," Malfoy muttered under his breath. Her again? What was Malfoy intending by bringing her up? Why had he brought her, out of all of the possible students as an example of regret? "I'm sorry man, I just wanted to apologize to you about her."

What did Malfoy mean by that? It felt weird for Malfoy to bring it up, nearly out of the blue. He'd never talked much about her, especially not in the past year or so, as he slowly became disinterested in the other houses. "What do you mean by that?" Nott asked with a half smile on his face. He wanted to brighten the mood, whatever the mood may possibly be.

Shaking his head, Malfoy seemed slightly confused by Nott's question. It took him a few seconds to say anything. His aura was impenetrable, or unreadable; Nott could not tell which. "Just that, man, I feel as if I ruined your chance with her man. I meant what I said, when I said she was just like you. I've never really talked to her before, like really talk to her if you get my meaning, but the few times we've spoken," he paused momentarily, "she acted just like how you act.

"And if, you know, she's just like you, then maybe she's an equal like us," it was a bizarre thing to hear Malfoy call her an equal, considering the many times he had called her a mudblood. "But I think I ruined, for so many years, any possible amity between the houses. And I've seen you two every once and a while recently. Each time I do, I think about how similar you are. If you'd been able to be friends, if we were all less mean to those Gryffindors, to her, then maybe you guys may have been able to have something."

It was a stunning display; Malfoy contradicted so many of his previous sentiments. He'd been the one to order the attack on Hermione. He had said such horrible things to her and about her. How people can change! How years can turn someone into something different.

He understood the sentiment anyway. He'd known the desire to have connected more and to have expressed more. In that fucking room, the goddamned cage, he'd lived and loved and hated, but it was only a single layer. Nott had hated too many of the Slytherin, but by being a Slytherin he could not escape them. Not with Malfoy's personal war being conducted. Nott at all really; Nott at all.

"Don't worry about it man," Nott tried to suggest. "We're not even going to attend the same university when we leave this place. We'd have just broken up eventually anyway, as everyone eventually does."

Malfoy smiled, slightly. "You're probably right. Still, that doesn't mean your time here wouldn't have been nicer. I'm sure you would have smiled a little more, at least in this room." He looked around the dorm. "Hey, I'm going to go and eat, I'll see you later."

Nott nodded in understanding. Malfoy stood and left the room.

Theodore Nott sat there, alone. _Placed as he was, surrounded by the conscious trappings in the magical webs, there was more to reach. He loved the ones dead; who grew into nothing and rested within the aura of the Slytherin._ He'd soon be a dead one. He'd only have one chance to be here: in this room. He'd only have one chance at Hogwarts and it was almost up. There was no returning. The dead were not those no longer alive, but the ones stagnant: the ones stuck in the past.

How different it could have been, if, as Malfoy said, there had not been such hostility. But he had already fucked up. He had seen the tears: he'd made the curls cry. But the curls were not hers: they were his. The curls were hers of his. It was absurd: he was absurd. She'd made him cry: he'd made her cry. It was rotten. What were the curls? Each wrong. Each alone. Each unreal. Each not. Each Nott.


	7. Devils

Part 3: Devils

_-I look back then, and it's so distant_

_-Was it really all that long ago? _

_-No, I don't mean it like that. _

_-Then what do you mean?_

_-I mean it's so separate to now. I remember those moments as the present. Like I could affect the moments, and choose. But, I can't anymore. The moments are set, and I can't change anything._

_-Do you want to?_

_-I don't know. Maybe; probably; probably I do._

Theodore Nott sat in his chair for the last time. The room was dim. He'd come here to remember the past. Each time the nostalgia would start to build, he would choke on the air. The moments he attempted an epiphany were broken into coughing fits. Mold had slowly grown over most of the wall. A musky smell filled his nose, and each breath he felt as if he could taste it. It was awfully uncomfortable.

He'd dreamed of here the past couple of nights. As if it were real, he'd been tracing his fingers on the walls within repose. It had felt real then, but hardly felt real now. Experiencing the room was not the way his imagination presented it. Each moment was sensually distracting. He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd rather be somewhere else. But if he'd rather be somewhere else, why was his dreams telling him to return?

Over the past couple of nights, he'd been sitting over his desk. In rows, books laid out in front of him. He never read them. He knew he should read them. Each time he moved his eyes over the words, they became heavy. Half-way down a page he felt as if he was being dragged towards the words. In those moment, he felt like flying. He wanted to be dreaming. His head would beg to be releaved. By the end of the page his eyes stared directly ahead of him. His focus escaped to some cloud, trying to feel its feelings.

In those moments of irrelevance, his muscled ached to be back in his room. His back contracted, begging to sit in his chair one more time. Yet, now was not then, and he knew it now more than ever: sitting in the room was different.

There was the chair, stained and muted brown; glimmering in the light a slight green if seen at particular angles. It had shifted over time; little remained of the pompous wooden carvings deemed appropriate for placement in Slytherin. Nott had brought it here. The reasons escaped him now. The reasons were mostly irrelevant at the moment anyway, but it did not stop him from thinking upon it. He'd wanted to bring the chair with him, to sit, but also -he hardly admitted this himself- wished for some company. The chair was a reminder of the rest of the house. But here now, it was only a channel of the awful stench. It was most unrecognizable, only an ugly rotten chair.

This room was his home. He was attached to each inch. The corners were filled with details and colours he was able to recognize at first glance. It was all familiar to him. Why did it feel unreal then? Why had he dreamed of it in a different fashion than it was? He knew it already. There were no surprises within the claustrophobic room. How could he forget? How could he think it wrong?

In truth, the room had little to do with the physical room he sat in. The chair, walls, flooded floor, were all parts of the room, but there was something more. There was the time Nott had spent in the room. The dreams he had felt. All of the ideas which had come to fruition while he sat. The moments he first started to explore the auras built around him. He owed those parts of the room as much as he owed the physical. He owed those parts recognition in his personal formation.

He owed those parts in realizing they were gone. There were no more moments to be had here. To have a clear head required a more comfortable arrangement. He'd let the room age and ferment. It's bitter taste now hardly conformed to what he needed.

What did he need? For so long all he could think of was nothing. He'd felt nothing. He was nothing. Nothing was he. But now there was something. Whatever it was he did not know. But he was not satisfied with only nothing now. There must be more, or at least he felt something more. He felt something real. Perhaps it was jealousy, regret or nostalgia; he couldn't put a word to it.

It felt weird, but it felt. It felt real. It felt hardly like nothing at all.

In a few minutes, he was going to stand. When he left this room, there was no coming back. This was his last visit. He knew it. He'd already left it, really. He did not know when. Even now, in the room, he felt distant. As if he were somewhere else entirely.

He should leave.

He was grateful he could leave. In those first few years, he wasn't sure. He was terrified by the devils in everyone's eyes. He searched and searched but could not find them anywhere. Why did they not have devils in their eyes? Why did they not have devils? Why did they not have? Why was everyone so empty. Why was everyone so filled with nothing?

He remembered those strokes he made with the knife. He remembered the butterfly he carved into his skin. The surface was a plastic he only needed to part. He remembered the darkness. He remembered those dark places he'd been. He remembered how dark the room used to be.

But now he was going to leave. He only needed to stand from the chair and walk through the door frame. Maybe. Maybe there was more to it.

There was only one he'd ever seen the devils in her eyes. She stared at him. He remembered. Through the darkness, she had seen where he was hiding. Her words, soft, had cut him far deeper. Why did he lash back? He'd been afraid. He'd been hiding so long. They pushed pass their see-through skin, into the blood; contaminated. Each had hidden, he thought. He did not know. She'd tried to approach him and he had pushed her back. His force scared him; led him to tears; led him to regret. In that brief moment; in that brief conversation; he had done too much. He had said far more than had left his mouth; he had learned far more than what she had tried to teach.

He did know he needed to leave. He was not going to be heading where she was, but that was unimportant. There will be other places and others. There will be other states; one's he'll be able to be. Outside of these daunting halls. Once he was out of Hogwarts, into the next stage -whereever it may be- he'd find a new place to be.

Hopefully she'll be able to as well. He would like that.

He should leave.

Every one would describe how great he was at precognition. He could see further than anyone else. Yet now, when he tried, he couldn't see far at all. The fucking stench of the room filled his concentration. All he could think of was how he was here, right now. His body was trapped in this room he'd put himself in. A room he was unwilling to leave.

If he tried to look past. The beyond; the yet-to-come of the future; the songs of the auras around him were not of the future, but instead of the past. Each of the bacteria rushing past him in those pipes of shit were not moving past; they were all trapped in the moment they were in. Never to explore, and never to hope for a change backwards. The future was not filled with future moments, it was filled with present moments and regrets of the past.

He couldn't look past it.

It was all trite. There were no reason to put as much value onto it as he was. This was high school. This was a small part of him. This will be gone soon. Yet, it was still everything to him now, and everything he will ever be. He will only ever be in the 'now'; if he can't figure out a way to live in the now, then he was hardly living at all.

He wondered if she was able to see it too. If she was crippled too. He doubted it. At that moment, when he had thrown his words back at her, he had still seen those devils in her eyes. Perhaps there was more behind those pupils than what he was giving her credit for.

The devils were never anything other than himself. He was always the devils. He had always been looking for himself. He wanted to find that look, in that the other. He'd felt if he found it, then he would understand the world. Then, the world could be as he saw it. He only ever saw the look within her. Could she actually look the same? And he had only ever seen it in her: for those brief moments. Maybe he will find another with the look?

Maybe, he, like Oedipus, will stab out his eyes. Change his look. Force those devils out of himself, so he can move forward; so he can move out of this place. Move in the now. Leave this room. Blind him of the dust filling his crammed space.

Take a deep breath, Theodore Nott. Step forward. Move one foot in front of another. Make each step you take become less serious as the last. If you would leave your mind, then you can leave. You can do it. This room is only a small part of the world. The magic you control shouldn't limit you. Why does your magic keep you in such a box? Take a step, and you can leave it. It is a movement; it will take your moment, but you have many; try not to worry. Try not to worry.

Theodore Nott, took a step, and left the room for the last time.

_-I watched him. I wanted him. Those words whispered in my ear. "You're so pretty, you're so pretty, you're so pretty." I want to explain what happened. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted. But I did little. And I'm so distant now. I feel so far from where we were in that moment. I want it back. I wanted it back, then. I don't know what I want. _

_-I'm sad. I don't know anyway else to say it. I've tried to get it out of me. I'd do whatever is necessary. I've been fixated for too long. I've been beating, and beating. "You're so lucky, you're so lucky, you're so lucky." Please stop looking in my eyes. Please stop looking at me. I'm not myself. I'm only what I think you think I am. I'm a lie. I'm a guess. I'm hardly real, concrete. _

_-I want to shift him. I want to have power in my hand. I want to have power r in my words. There's so much I can do. "You have such possibilities, you have such possibilities, you have such possibilities." I'm tired of dedicating myself to something else than myself. I'm tired. Why can I do so much? Why can I change so much? I've stepped beyond the possible, but you're further still. _

_-I want to fuck you. I want to forget that moment. It happened. I cried my tears. I still loved the mark. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Please, please, please I wish it could have been different. I know you want me, and I do too. I do too._

_-Please stop talking to me. Kiss me red with a knife; lick my wounds. My eyes, green, stare. _

Turn, turn, turn, turn, turn... Turn into something. Turn into anything. Turn into dreams. Turn into hope. Turn into love. Turn away from me. Turn into me.

_But I don't know how, I don't know how._

_0000  
_

_End of Story 2_

_0000_

Author's notes:

With the end of story 2 comes the end of this whole story. I started writing the first chapter as a short One Shot, but somehow it trapped me into writing more and more. 

When I first started to write this story, I intended not to explain anything. If I told you how to read it, then the fun of your own interpretations would be lost. The first review I received for this story talked about parallel universes. I have no idea how this person found parallel universes in that chapter, but I think it's one of the best compliments they could have given. They were able to see their own story within it. That's great.

Now, the reason I brought this up is the two reviews for the last chapter. Each of the reviews are intended to give 'criticism' towards the work, yet both of their criticisms are intentional parts on my doing. Since this is the end of the story, and if you've read this far then surely you must have got something out of it for yourself, I'm going to explain broadly some of the points of this story.

Basically at the stories core is contradictions. I believe the most obvious case of this is how this story is a love story and not a love story. All of the characters love, seek love, are obsessed with it, yet they never find it, they're pretty sure it's not real, etc. In a similar way, it's about turning into something and staying the same. All of the characters want to become more, different, happy, but they are always still themselves. They're faced with, by virtue of them being themselves, they can not be someone else.

Now the two relevant to the past two reviews. Firstly, on not going anywhere (I do want to say though, that I understand why this is a legitimate criticism, and do plan on implementing it the next time I do something like this), the story is very much about 'the past', 'the future' and 'the present' (hell, they are chapter names). They're connection, though, is not transitory or as a passage. Time does not flow. At each moment the characters are living in the present, remembering the past and looking forward to the future. I wanted to represent 'being in time' how a person does. This story is less of a story and more of a 'moment'. The story never goes anywhere because that would force change and progression; I wanted neither.

Secondly, on the other review. This one was more of a flame review than criticism, but it tells me to 'read the books'. According to this person my story doesn't count as fanfiction. I disagree, but I will admit I wanted to push the limits of fanfiction. Personally I'm not much of a Harry Potter fan, but I loved it for that reason. I could write unguided by the 'fan' part of 'fanfiction' and focus on the 'fiction'.

Now there is much more to the story than that (including more contradictions), but I don't want to explain anymore. While not a lot 'happens' in the story, there is a lot there.

I had a lot of fun writing this story, and I hoped you even partly enjoyed reading it.

Thanks,


End file.
